Shards of Scattered Song
by Jedi Amoira
Summary: Newest Chaps. are 17, 19, & 20. Trying to keep these in chronological order. Isolated moments of memory captured in the words of a bard just struggling to make sense of it all. In other words, a collection of one shot plot bunnies based on NWN2 and MotB.
1. Morning Breaks

Note: This is not a cohesive story at this point. Instead each post is--or will be--a plot bunny or small fragment of what might eventually take place as either one very long fic covering both the NWN2 OC and MotB, or as two slightly shorter fics covering each storyline separately. Also, in case you are curious about the title, it's a very vague reference to The Aeneid, where the Sybil writes words or letters of her prophecies on leaves that are scattered by the winds.

Disclaimer: I do not own NWN2. Most of the dialogue in this snippet is taken directly from the game, although I have tried to limit this effect. The only thing I own is the character of Eirylynn Signe, better known as Eiry. This story is written solely for fun and not for profit. I love my stories very much; please do not print or post them elsewhere without my knowledge. Thank you.

* * *

Thin streaks of silver light broke in shards, gilding the white mist waves rising and ebbing into the distance around the edges, puddling in pools, glowing living gold nestled amongst clumps of swaying willow and quivering reed. Petals of peach and vermillion unfurled at the horizon like a rose, a perfect counterpoint to an indescribable expanse of sky tinged not smoke, not forget-me-not blue, not violet, but some suggestion of each.

While the deepest and most enduring of her own devotion belonged to Hanali, she knew her goddess would understand—even appreciate—her love of the dawn framed in her cloudy window as sincere—and, therefore, ultimately an homage to her—and not begrudge Eiry's appreciation of the god who provided the view.

A pity West Harbor didn't love Lathlander better. It was a truth Brother Merring labored to change, but he and the Morninglord were both seen as strangers. And though he had the best of intentions, truly, it was more than a bit unreasonable to expect farmers to have much time or thought to spare to the Lord of Morning—which, after all, was but a moment—when they had to offer the labor of their hours in sacrifice to Chauntea, the Mother of All Things Growing, who kept them fed. Particularly lately, when it looked as if that might be a lot to ask…

It was a view that burnt her eyes with a strange mix of joy and sorrow, an emotion that sank and lodged in her throat, threatening to choke her. At that moment—and the moment of twilight that mirrored it back again—simply to be in the Mere was enough and more than enough…All that was needed. And for that split second she felt she understood him…her…foster-father, Daeghun.

And yet, somehow, the sight of this morning brought not comfort, but a growing sense of unease…as if there was a threat approaching that she did not see and could not hear…a storm gathering just beyond the calm. And, unfortunately, not the rain of which she'd overheard Orlen telling Daeghun West Harbor was in need. Even the rustling sound of Daeghun stirring the fire in the room below could not dispel the feeling of silence pressing slowly in upon her.

Perhaps it was worry over the spreading blight…Orlen had wanted to consult the druids about. Eiry hadn't grown up in West Harbor, particularly hanging around Georg in constant hopes of swapping stories, without realizing full well that the rest of the community might follow Georg's lead, but Georg often looked to Orlen to tell him where to go. She had also long since realized there was a reason why. Or, rather, many reasons. Not the least of which were that Orlen knew what he was talking about, and he didn't talk just to hear himself speak. Unlike herself and Georg she supposed, but in a way Georg—and Eiry —was smart enough to appreciate.

Orlen had come to ask Daeghun if he knew where the druids were to be found and Eiry couldn't quite help overhearing...She had thought Daeghun always knew where the druids in the area were…but if he had, he almost certainly would have passed the information along to Orlen. Which he had not. The cold feeling creeping along the back of her neck got a lot worse.

But…perhaps the dark cloud pressing over her mood this fine morning was only a growing sense of difference, a reluctant awareness that Bevil and Amie were beginning to look at one another in a way that—however little they knew or intended it—seemed to exclude her …for them at least, and perhaps even for her, childhood was drawing to a close…and things could not remain the same.

Or maybe she was only worried the three of them might not make the most of their last chance to win the Harvest Cup.

Between the Challenge and the Brawl, Eiry wasn't quite sure why they continued to compete for the Cup every year. But, sure or not, she certainly wanted to win the damn thing.

Suppressing a sigh, she slipped down the stairs, slightly shocked to find Daeghun still there, contemplating the fire…though she couldn't have explained exactly why she was surprised as she hadn't heard him leave. "So many years ago today…" she thought she heard him mutter, but he was already turning to fix her with steady gray-green eyes as still and unreadable as the waters of the Mere. "Ah. My foster-daughter is up and dressed, I see."

She fought the urge to wince, wondering if Daeghun meant to sound subtly ironic, or if he truly didn't notice how critical calmly stating the obvious could sound somehow. Sometimes Daeghun did seem a bit imperceptive, in spite of his marksman's eye.

Now was clearly one of those times, as he'd kept talking, unaware her attention had drifted. "—the human need to celebrate remembrance days baffles me—" A truth which she learned and re-learned each time he failed to mark her natal day. Her lips twisted with wistful bitterness and wry resignation, but Daeghun still didn't seem aware of her altered expression. The remark on the passage of the years she'd thought she'd heard him utter had to have been her imagination.

"—but at least something productive may come of it. The merchant, Galen, is here—he'll want my furs as he usually does. Coins can be useful in getting by." If she'd been speaking with anyone else, she would have taken the words for a joke. With Daeghun—in spite of having been raised by him—she simply wasn't sure how he intended them, and he didn't elaborate. Instead, he informed her that as he was expected to supervise the Archery Competition—as he did every year—she would be needed to sell the furs Daeghun had been gathering all year and collect the money.

Before she could point out that—well, aside the bow he apparently expected her to purchase for him with the proceeds from the furs—this was pretty much what happened each and every High Harvest Day, Daeghun had walked out the door. She rolled her eyes, and obediently collected Daeghun's bundle of furs from their usual chest. The bundle was quite large and rather heavy, so carrying it was awkward and frustrating. It seemed to take her half an age simply to reach the little footbridge where Amie and Bevil waited…just as they often had through all their childhood.


	2. The Harvest Cup

Note: At this point each chapter post is--or will be--a plot bunny or small fragment of what might eventually take place as either one very long fic covering both the NWN2 OC and MotB, or as two slightly shorter fics covering each storyline separately. While this is not cohesive story at this point, this is a long post. Since it all covers the tutorial events, I hate to break it up into smaller fragments. I'm posting it now because it's already so long, but I may add a few paragraphs onto the end later. Also, in case you are curious about the fic title, it's a very vague reference to The Aeneid, where the Sybil writes words or letters of her prophecies on leaves that are scattered by the winds.

Disclaimer: I do not own NWN2. Most dialogue in this fragment is quoted from the game, but I have tried to keep this to a minimum. The only thing I own is the character of Eirylynn Signe, better known as Eiry. This story is written solely for fun and not for profit. I love my stories very much; please do not print or post them elsewhere without my knowledge. Thank you.

* * *

Armed with training clubs from Merring's supplies, Eiry, Bevil and Amie made short work of the Lannons. Unfortunately—after a short rest Eiry wheedled out of Brother Merring—they had to fight the Mossfelds, which really didn't bode well for their chances, particularly since Bevil—inarguably the one carrying the weight of their team in any brawling competition—had an unfortunate tendency to let the Mossfelds get under his skin. The Mossfelds knew it, too, and liked to goad him into making mistakes.

On the other hand, Eiry was out of sorts and in the mood for a brawl, much to the disgust of Brother Merring. And—much to her disgust—Brother Merring refused to allow participants in the Brawl to place bets.

He insisted this would tempt unfair arrangements, tainting what was meant to be an act of worship and a prayer of thanks to all the gods. Eiry saw his point… Just as she could see that some—such as the Mossfelds—were sure to have unfair arrangements nonetheless…and she'd be more than happy to make a bit of coin at their expense. On the other, she had less than no desire to offend the gods; their wrath was probably more lasting a problem than poverty. So she conceded…albeit with ill-grace.

And…Just as she had known he would, Wyl Mossfeld tried to goad her into making a bet. After all, it was one he was more than likely to win. Considering Wyl led up to his request by picking on Amie, Eiry would have loved to pick his pocket, and wouldn't even have objected to using a bet on long odds to do it. Luckily, Bevil was there to stuffily remind them that Brother Merring had said it was forbidden.

It was no wonder the Mossfelds loved to torment him…he somehow managed to make them all sound as if they were still five years old and in need of supervision. Eiry stuck an elbow in his ribs. "Sorry, Mossfeld. I don't trust you to pay up." Which was completely and utterly true. Whether or not she would have been willing to take his bet if she had trusted him was another matter…that had far more to do with respecting gods and traditions than the rules.

That was a far harder fight… one that left Eiry with several bruises in unfortunate places that would probably take many days to heal. Amie had a rather nasty scrape along one cheek, and Bevil's nose refused to stop bleeding entirely…though the flow had finally slowed to an intermittent trickle…but they were all grinning so widely their faces looked as though they might split.

Tired of dragging about the huge bundle of furs she'd reclaimed it from Brother Merring—since after he'd ordered her not to gamble, she'd all but thrown it at him in retaliation—Eiry staggered in the direction of where the merchant Galen her foster-father Daeghun had instructed her—as he did every year—to trade with set up his tent each year, thankful it was only a few steps from the paddock where the Brawl had staged. Galen didn't recognize her at first, and seemed inclined to tell her to get lost, but recognition set in before he began.

"Why, you're Daeghun's ward. Isn't that right? He didn't happen to mention a shipment of furs, did he?"

Eiry stared at him. Was she the only one who remembered that they did this every year? She hoisted the unmistakable bundle…the one that was no doubt largely responsible for so obscuring her from view that he'd had trouble recognizing her.

"Ah, good! Daeghun's a reliable sort…always the highest quality furs. You can't imagine the demand in Neverwinter. Uh…relatively speaking." Why didn't he just stick a sign on his forehead announcing he intended to short them? Not that Eiry cared all that much, really. She might have cared more if she hadn't been so distracted by the odd realization that Daeghun really was, in fact, reliable. She'd never thought of him that way before.

Galen was hurrying on to other topics, no doubt hoping to bury his blunder in a flurry of words. "I haven't forgotten his Duskwood Bow, either. I always come through—you tell Daeghun that." And conveniently forget to tell him how much money his furs were worth in Neverwinter. Galen obviously knew little of Daeghun. Not that Eiry herself knew much of him…but now was not the time to ruminate on that. "I'll warn you," Galen added, exposing his greed again, "the bow's a bit pricey. But it's fine workmanship. Sneaked it across the Luskan border."

He pulled out the bow and displayed it with pride. A pride she had to admit—given what she'd learned over years of living with an arcane archer, if with little interest in becoming one—seemed entirely justified.

She exchanged the furs for rather more gold than usual—Galen must have felt the need to be cautious after his unfortunate slip, though it was no more than she could have guessed with a bit of common sense—and bought the bow, fully intending to take it directly to Daeghun lest it somehow be damaged while under her supervision. But, as they drew close to the third and last community paddock—the one where the Tourney of Talent always took place, Retta Starling darted over and grabbed Amie.

Eiry silently reminded herself very little was likely to happen to the bow in the course of Amie's hour of fame…and if it did, they were only a few hundred feet from Daeghun—he'd probably see the whole thing first hand. She wouldn't even have to worry about 'fessing up. So she grinned and joined Retta in coaxing Amie to go ahead and dazzle the crowd with the act she'd cooked up for the Tourney of Talent. The fierce pride radiating off of Bevil…not to mention the look of dazed delight on Amie's face was reward enough for her daring.

Amie stepped in front of the crowd, took a deep breath, and squared her shoulders. Then, with quiet but firm incantation and graceful gesture, she summoned a wolf to stand beside her. The children oohed and ahhed and clapped appreciatively.

Another incantation, another gesture…and Bevil was suddenly about ten feet taller. The crowd seemed impressed, but Eiry was of the opinion that his usual several inches over six feet of height—not to mention the sheer breadth of his shoulders—was quite big enough already. Looking at his temporarily enlarged figure made her feel like an insignificant ant facing the possibility of being trod over. Amie, who was taller than Eiry, but not by more than four or five inches, and who was standing considerably closer to Bevil, seemed to have no such worries.

She simply murmured a third incantation and made a larger and more theatrical gesture, tossing a sparkling icy beam at a nearby barrel. Icicles formed up through the barrel, hardening into blades of crystal for a few breathtaking seconds before the barrel burst, scattering them upon the wind like bits of snowflakes.

Needless to say, Amie won handily, just as Bevil and Eiry had known she would. The outcome of that was never in doubt, even if they had had much stronger competition than Wyl Starling's nortoriously awful pixie impression. In fact, the whole village must have expected it, as Retta gave them a couple of scrolls the local wizard Tarmas had told her to give his apprentice Amie if she won.

Giddy with success, they turned to make their way out of the paddock, and nearly ran into Orlen, who was waiting to ask if Amie would mind having a look at Lewy Jon's prize pig. Amie was clearly thrilled at the prospect of giving her magical opinion on something, so Eiry and Bevil were willing enough to walk over to the paddock where the pigs were being displayed.

Eiry was no wizard. She wasn't even a wizard's apprentice. But she'd spent enough time with one—often during lessons—that she could easily tell something about the giant pig was amiss…even though she might have been hard-pressed to identify just what it was.

Amie, on the other hand, seemed to have a theory almost at once. She had hardly set eyes on the pig before she started nodding. She walked around it a couple of times, staring intently, and even waved her hand through the air just over it, testing her hypothesis, then looked at Eiry and confirmed that—just as Orlen suspected—the pig had been enchanted.

Eiry tore her attention away from the familiar little drama of Pitney Lannon and Lazlo Buckman arguing over Pitney's intake of Harvest Mead which was taking place just past the paddock, and returned to the issue of the pig.

Any suggestions?" she prompted. "Bevil? Amie?"

"Well…" Amie considered. "Retta did give us a scroll of Lesser Dispel. All I'll have to do is read the words—"

"Wait a minute," Bevil interjected. "Shouldn't we say something to Lewy? He's a foul old wretch, but we ought to give him a chance to withdraw from the contest before he's shamed in front of everyone."

Eiry was fairly certain Lewy Jons had no shame, but she was willing enough to humor Bevil.

Finding Lewy wasn't hard, as he'd been lurking just outside the paddock the entire time, watching them with shifty and suspicious eyes. She stepped over and looked him straight in the eye—in spite of the fact he was several inches taller—and asked conversationally who had sold him the enlargement potion. She rather suspected it was Galen.

Lewy spat on the ground at her feet and shouted that they were trying to help Orlen cheat by accusing the competition of wrongdoing without any way to prove anything. Then he looked her up and down assessingly and suggested that he might pay them better to shut up and tell Orlen Lewy hadn't cheated.

Eiry was of no mind to negotiate. "No deal. Withdraw your hog from the contest or we'll dispel the enchantment."

"That's a bluff, nothing more," scoffed Lewy. "The orphan wench is a mere 'prentice and Tarmas wouldn't trouble himself with farmers and pigs. Now be off, before I tell your father how you've been slandering me and my pig!"

Eiry raised her brows. As if her father would care in the least. Even if he did, which was so far short of likely as to barely rate consideration, a tendency to take other peoples' word over hers had never been among Daeghun's shortcomings.

She didn't have to say anything. She didn't even have to take her eyes off of Orlen. Amie knew. And Amie read the scroll.

"Hells take you!" Lewy cursed. "Look what you've done to my pig!"

Shrugging, Eiry turned to take a look. Amie's spell had worked even better than she'd anticipated, reducing giant hog to petite piglet. She gave a satisfied snort and walked over to where Orlen stood observing the scene.

"Did you see the expression on that hog's face?" Orlen was chuckling. "Had a few glorious hours of bein' a big porker, lordin' it over his seniors, but now he's back to his poor little self. I bet there'll be some uncomfortable moments in the pigsty tonight! And I'd say that's the last time anybody tries to magick a hog in this contest. Hate to see Lewy so shamed, but he brought it on himself."

The way Orlen and Bevil talked, you might have thought Eiry was a mean-spirited imp playing pranks upon undeserving elders. The way they seemed to imply she ought to feel sorry for Lewy… as if unveiling _his_ misdeed should make _her_ feel guilty was… irritating. Particularly when Orlen was the one who'd asked her to do it! Actually, he hadn't asked her…he'd asked Amie. But somehow, Eiry felt as though she was the one being held responsible. "Glad to be of help, Orlen," she said with subtle sarcasm.

"Thanks are well and good, but I've got this for you, too," Orlen returned, handing her a package. Eiry handed it to Amie. Amie smiled, shook her head slightly, and pushed the package back at Eiry. "It's pork jerky," Orlen explained. "Tough, dry meat, but it tastes like the heavens and keeps longer than bad memories. Good food for the road…if you ever plan on taking a walk."

As pretty much everyone in the village knew Eiry, Amie, and Bevil had been talking about doing just that ever since Tarmas had nursed Amie through the summer fever with tales of adventures they suspected were his own.

Of course, they couldn't leave until Amie finished her apprenticeship… which was surely still a few years away…and Eiry had a feeling that things might be a lot different by then. As it was, Bevil was already beginning to claim he could only take leave of West Harbor for a season. His mother needed his help…which Eiry had to admit it was good of him to consider…Her grin—slight to begin with—faded a bit.

Still, it was the thought that counted. "Thanks, Orlen."

"No trouble at all."

Eiry could sense Bevil and Amie trading glances behind her back, a situation that did little to improve her suddenly-darkened mood. She stalked off to give Daeghun his bow, almost convinced she didn't care whether they followed her or not.

For all he'd dispatched her to claim it, the bow was not the subject with which Daeghun chose to greet her. "So, you've decided to compete for the Cup, I see." Eiry stared at him. He caught that hint. "I know this is your last year," he continued, answering her silent question as to whether or not he remembered she'd competed every year since she was old enough, and even implying he might understand the competition was actually important to her. "But the rules apply to all, even foster-daughters."

Torn between indignation he thought she didn't know as much and some other, harder to identify, emotion at the idea that he might actually offer her special treatment if he could, Eiry settled for Daeghun's own preferred method of conversing—stating the obvious. "Fine. I'm ready to begin."

"The rules are the same as last year—10 shots and 10 targets. 5 is the best score so far. If you remember the lessons that have been taught you, you should be able to best that."

Daeghun had only stated a fact, but Eiry thought he might actually be trying to encourage her, which was enough to make her feel faint. She covered her confusion by snatching the competition crossbow and leveling it at the first target.

Impulsive and somewhat undisciplined as she had a tendency to be, she had learned—eventually—to take a deep breath, clear her mind, and focus on the target…and where her mind went, her arrows now followed. Just as Daeghun had told her time and time again they would.

"Well done!" The quiet pride in his voice made her wish she could have chosen her own weapon. She was competent enough with a crossbow… with a shortbow she was better yet…Daeghun had seen to that. But it seemed even less than her best performance was good enough to render her normally reticent foster-father almost talkative.

Even more surprising…the words he continued to speak were words of praise. But all too brief, and then he was shooing her off to the fair and out of his way. Very much the usual thing.

Eiry produced the bow and held it out to him, an excuse to linger as long as she could.

Daeghun inclined his head in acknowledgement and took the bow, running his hand along it in a caress with words of murmured praise.

There was a slight, but awkward pause.

Wilting with dejection, she followed Amee and Bevil across the path only to have her once-more disgruntled mood quickly reflected back to her as Amie and Bevil pulled her over to talk to Tarmas the wizard about the Knave's Challenge.

Tarmas greeted them huffily, apparently adversely affected by the air of cheer that seemed to permeate the rest of the village, and informed them that they'd need a team member capable of searching for hidden items, picking pockets, and breaking locks if they wanted to compete. Eiry found it somewhat touching he assumed none of them had any of those skills to use...but, then again, he was right, as Tarmas had a tendency to be.

Bevil seemed abashed at the very suggestion they might know anyone with skills like that. Eiry couldn't help snickering a bit, as they went through this every year and she couldn't help being amused that somehow Bevil never seemed to remember what they had done.

"One of these children, perhaps…" Eiry mused, eyeing them as if they were Galen's goods.

"What about Kipp?" suggested Amie. "He's always nicking vials from Tarmas, and he's right over there, behind the tent."

That was good enough for Eiry.

"Look," Kipp said a bit sullenly as she approached. "I'm just watching the Fair, all right? Whatever it is, I ain't done it."

"I know you haven't…yet." Eiry told him. Catching the flicker of interest in his eyes, she hurried to reel him in. "We were wondering if you'd like to join our team."

"Wha--? Really? You mean compete for the Cup? But I'm just a kid. I mean, I'm old enough to be on a team and all…"

"Yes," Eiry said immediately. "Really. We want you to join our team."

Mostly because they wanted to win, but somehow she felt their motives would probably endear them to Kipp all the more; he had the air of someone who appreciated the fact that the expedient was often necessary to survive. The admirable, on the other hand, often was not.

Kipp had obviously been itching for his chance to win this challenge. They informed Tarmas—with a couple of brief but illuminating digressions concerning pixies and frog eyelashes—that Kipp would be joining their team, and had the wizard had barely finished reciting the truly awful rhyme about three feathers and their locations which apparently made up the instructions for completing the Knave's Challenge when the boy ran directly to a pile of logs near Galen's tent.

"That ol' wizard's trapped them logs," he crowed, unsurprised that they'd all followed him in spite of the lack of warning or explanation."We can't get what's underneath 'em as long as that trap's in place. I've got past his traps before though…and they was the dangerous kind. Betcha I can get past this one too." He bent down and tinkered with the logs for what seemed like an impossibly long time. But he bounced to his feet beaming with triumph. "I got the blue feather! Brilliant! The next one's over here," he added, already on the move, "in this chest. Come on!"

Several other children were milling about a chest near Lazlo's mead stand, speculating on the feather within. Kipp walked right past them and plunked himself down in front of the chest, laying his head on the lid and taking the lock in his hand. Eiry thought she heard a faint _snick_ and Kipp moved his hand away, taking the lock with it. He stood up, pushed back the lid of the chest, and quickly snatched up the white feather before any of his startled peers could grab it.

"Good job," Eiry told him, giving him a gentle clap on the back.

"I'm not sure we should be encouraging him," Bevil warned.

"Green in the pocket of same-colored man…" Amie's sparkling brown eyes scanned the crowd. "I bet that's him…over by the house! The feather's in his pocket, it's got to be!"

Kipp looked at Eiry inquiringly. Eiry nodded. She trusted both Amie's intelligence and her knowledge of Tarmas. Kipp nodded slightly in return, and darted up to the green man's side. Eiry thought she might have seen his hand slip into the man's pocket, but he moved so quickly she couldn't sure. Kipp rejoined them near the chest, triumphant and ever-so-slightly out of breath. He held the last feather up so the other children wouldn't see.

"This should make Tarmas happy," Amie said, her voice an affectionate smile.

"That really would be magic," Bevil said, looking startled as they all laughed.

Pleased to see the feathers, if only because that meant he could go somewhere dry, Tarmas declared them the winners of the Knave's Challenge and observed that they appeared to have done the unlikely—if not the impossible—and won the Harvest Cup. Eiry might have wondered how he knew, but he was a wizard, after all. She'd spent enough time around him to be accustomed to his slightly uncanny air of prescience. "Probably best to tell Georg. You know the fellow…" That might have been Tarmas' idea of a joke, given how much time Eiry seemed to spend with Georg. "…large, cheery, talks a bit…" Tarmas' voice began to fade as he wandered off in the direction of his house.

Eiry looked at the others. "We did it," she said. "I can't believe…we did it." Amie was staring back at her, looking equally shocked. Bevil shook his head, expressing a similar disbelief. Kipp hugged himself, rocking back and forth with glee. "We actually did it," Eiry said again. "We won the Cup."

As Bevil began crowing about how he had broken the Starling Curse—which simply meant that the Mossfelds were always ribbing him about how no one in his family had won the Harvest Cup since his much-older brother Lorne had lost to Cormick-an event that was hardly worthy of shame, seeing as how Cormick was the stuff of West Harbor legends, as Georg was constantly telling Eiry at length—Eiry and Amie steered him in the direction of Lazlo's Harvest Mead stand. After all, they knew how to celebrate.

Lazlo, on the other hand, was having none of it. He wasn't about to be selling them Mead after what Amie had been up to the year previously.

"Um, maybe we better go…" Amie said sheepishly, retreating a few steps.

"Aye," huffed Lazlo, "that business up on the roof with the swinging hips, and that vulgar song!" It had, in Eiry's opinion, been quite the highlight of the festival. Lazlo, needless to say, disagreed. "Not this year, young lady! On your way now, all of you!"

Eiry wasn't about to leave without her mug of mead. It wouldn't be a Harvest Fair without a taste of Lazlo's mead.

It was time to take matters into her own hands. Or mouth, as it were. "Swinging hips?" she repeated, innocent as the day she was born. Surely Lazlo couldn't think she'd ever seen such a thing, let alone remembered it.

Right on cue, though probably without any knowledge that a cue existed, Bevil laughed. "She's blushing! Look at her cheeks go red!"

Amie, who'd been quietly walking away, wheeled on her heel to face her companions, both hands rising to her hips. "You two told me you'd made that up…"

Eiry shrugged apologetically. "Give us a song, then…?" she suggested.

"No, thanks," Amie said firmly. "Not without a whole lot of mead. I didn't even think I _knew_ any bawdy songs."

Only the ones Eiry taught her at the Harvest Fair when they'd had a lot of mead…but now might not be the best of times to mention that. Particularly as Lazlo looked as though he was about to begin lecturing again.

Eiry linked arms with her friends and pulled them behind a large tree, where Kipp was ready and waiting with four overflowing mugs of Harvest Mead.


	3. A Dark Anniversary

Note: At this point each chapter post is--or will be--a plot bunny or small fragment of what might eventually take place as either one very long fic covering both the NWN2 OC and MotB, or as two slightly shorter fics covering each storyline separately. While this is not cohesive story at this point, this is a long post. Since it covers one major event, I hate to break it up into smaller fragments.

Disclaimer: I do not own NWN2. Most dialogue in this fragment is quoted from the game, but I have tried to keep this to a minimum. The only thing I own is the character of Eirylynn Signe, better known as Eiry. This story is written solely for fun and not for profit. I love my stories very much; please do not print or post them elsewhere without my knowledge. Thank you.

* * *

_She and Amie paused in gathering herbs for Tarmas—a task they both enjoyed—to watch the militia-training taking place in largest paddock of the village commons. _

_Bevil's hair waved like harvest-ready wheat in the wind, and light glanced off the scales of his armor in glaring shards as he moved, weaving carefully around the dark form of Wyl Mossfeld. _

_Acorns drifted from a tree, sliding down the opposing men in drops like rain, and Eiry saw Kipp's laughing dark eyes and dirty winsome face framed in the green leaves. _

_A pixie who looked a lot like Georg swooped past Bevil, knocking him off balance into a well that was unfortunately just the right height to hit the backs of his knees. Bevil's legs bent, tipping him back…he was falling into the well…Wyl leapt forward and grabbed Bevil by the ankles. _

"_Gather 'round mates, gather 'round," Georg said, flying around Wyl's head. "We all know what happened on this day."_

_Kipp was hanging by his knees from the branches of the tree, his face suddenly inches from hers. "Me da and mum was trying to build some house way out in the swamp…they killed 'em both. Stuck 'em full of spears…"_

"_I'm sorry," Eiry said, feeling a frantic worry at her own inability to run to Bevil's aid. _

" _Not so long ago, we almost lost this village," intoned Georg. "Almost lost our lives, almost lost it all." _

"_I'm losing my grip on him!" Wyl shouted. _

"_But we came back," intoned Georg, flapping his wings for emphasis. "Cleared burnt farms, buried our dead, and put our ashes behind us. And we rebuilt, tougher and stronger than ever. Long as there's a Harvest Fair, we won't forget that day." _

"_Daeghun and I could help you," Eiry told Kipp. _

"_So many years ago today…" Daeghun mused, and Eiry realized he was standing on the crest of the hill beyond them, staring far over the horizon of the village. _

"_Nah, I don't need no charity," Kipp assured her. "That old priest feeds me sometimes, but I filch what I need, mostly. If I go hungry, it's my own fault, see? Means I'm getting sloppy, so's I better try harder. Always been good at filchin' things. Got it from my Da…he wasn't big or strong like your friend that great Starling lummox—"_

"_He sure is heavy enough," Wyl interjected, Bevil's ankles sliding a bit in his fist. _

"_You are the winner of this year's cup, it seems," Daeghun said soberly. "The news is on everyone's lips."_

_Wyl let ago of Bevil's ankles to swat at the pixie beating against his head…Bevil plunged into the well…_

"The village is under attack!" Bevil shouted. "West Harbor is under attack!"

Eiry awoke with a start and a stifled scream.

"Eiry, thank goodness you're safe!" Bevil was standing over her, Amie at his side, golden hair shining in the dark.

Eiry stared at them in confusion. "Grab a weapon. We need to help defend the village."

The urgency in Bevil's voice had her kicking back her blankets and lurching out of bed in the direction of the chest that held her most treasure possessions. "Why would anyone attack West Harbor?" she asked, pulling first heavy cotton hosen and then leather leggings on under and around the bunching edges of her nightgown.

"How would I know?" Bevil demanded impatiently. "There's nothing in this village of value. Maybe they're just raiding for food?" He flushed slightly, turning his head a bit belatedly as Eiry's nightgown hit his ear. She pulled a thin cotton tunic on its place, then a heavier wool on top. "Not that it matters."

Amie moved in to help her lace the series of complicated leather straps she preferred to wear over her tunic in place of a girdle or corset underneath. "We better hurry," Amie murmured, her voice lower and calmer, but taut with worry. Eiry sat on the edge of the bed to pull on her boots. "They're likely to hit this house next."

Eiry slung a quiver of arrows and her shortbow over her shoulder, and cinched a belt with several bulging pouches containing things she couldn't leave home without around her waist. "All right," she said grimly, her head pounding with the after-effects of mead and her dream. She snatched up the old sword Georg had once laughingly foisted on her in a half-hearted attempt to get her to join the militia. "Let's go."

She darted out of her room, down the hall, and through Daeghun's door, in spite of Bevil's nervous voice behind her questioning her wisdom in doing so.

Eiry just wanted to be sure Daeghun had the same chance to survive she'd been given. Her concern was unnecessary. His room was empty, and his bed hadn't been slept in. Trying not to think he had left her to her fate, she ran downstairs, Amie and Bevil right behind.

They were nearly to the door when it burst open and several dwarves burst in, waving axes. Eiry faltered. Either she was still dreaming, or those dwarves were _gray_.

One of the dwarves took a swipe at her. The axe whistling past her thigh felt pretty damn real to her. She hit him on the head with the hilt of the sword, as hard as she could. He hit the floor with a thud she could feel through the floorboards. She swallowed, hard, and began to chant a harmless ditty she'd written when she was watching the militia practice one day, hoping the familiar words and happy memory might give her and her friends some much needed courage.

They had to fight a few more of the gray dwarves to get there, but they managed to make it to the bridge with little incident.

"Thank the gods you made it—" Georg greeted her with a quick shoulder-clap. "I have no idea where those creatures came from or what they want, but the ones loose in the village are only the first wave. More are coming. A lot more. Gather a half dozen men or so—that's the most we can hope for—and meet me at the wheatfield south and west of here."

So that was where Daeghun had gone—in search of aid. Nice of him to wake her first. Eiry pressed her lips together, squaring her shoulders, and tightening her grip on her sword. If he'd expected her to die and free him of an unwanted pest, she'd show him…and if he simply trusted her to take care of herself and do her part for the village without his supervision, she would. "On my way."

For as long she lived ever after, Eiry would never forget Wyl Mossfeld's voice—faint as it was it was still a sneer –accosting her after only a few steps further into the darkness, making her stop in her tracks. His once-white tunic was wine-dark and glistening. He raised his hands in supplication, almost as if he met to touch her…Eiry flinched and fought the urge to shiver. Her palm suddenly felt hot and sweaty around the hilt of her sword. Her fingers were so tightly clenched she wasn't sure she'd ever be able to open them.

She could never remember the assurances she mumbled, but she couldn't forget her surprise in finding how much she wanted him to live. Wyl Mossfeld was too mean to die, of that she had always been sure.

"Eiry, please… my brother…" And that was when she saw Ward in no fit state himself, and right beside him.

"I can still make it…" Wyl said with his usual bull-headed determination. "…but my vision's getting cloudy…and can't seem to stand…have you seen my brother Ward? He…"

"Hang on, Ward," Eiry pleaded in return. "Let me go find Brother Merring, he may help."

Eiry ran blindly in search of Brother Merring, leaving Bevil and Amie to worry about noticing and stopping any dwarves that might appear.

"What news do you have of the battle?" Merring asked anxiously, though surely he had to know it wasn't good by the sight of her.

Eiry gasped out the three words she most needed him to hear. "Wounded…milita…help?"

Merring gave her some moss and an explanation she hardly heard and barely understood about how it would dull the pain enough to keep the miltia fighting until they could be healed.

That didn't exactly sound good for their health, but then again, if the wounded weren't fighting, they would almost certainly die…even Eiry knew it. She nodded, took the moss from Merring's hand, and ran back to Ward just as blindly as she'd gone.

"You're back?"

She ignored the question, yet another instance of stating the obvious. "Listen. Merring gave me these herbs to staunch the bleeding." She raised them hesitantly, and pressed them into Ward's wound as gently as she could, trying not to wince as her fingers came into contact with his blood.

Ward reached down and touched her hand as she drew away. "Thanks, Eirylynn…you didn't have to help after all we've been through, but I appreciate it." He sucked in a deep breath and pulled himself to his feet.

"Listen, Eirylynn," Wyl said, wobbling to his feet. "I… I owe you, I do." Wyl gasped as she repeated the process for him. "Ward and me can be cross at times…but we…don't mean no harm." Eiry wasn't so sure about that, but now wasn't the time to argue that. "I know you may not like me much—" Only because he'd spent every waking hour bedeviling her and everyone around her for as long as she could remember—"but, for what it's worth…thanks. I'm feeling better already. "

Ward grunted, apparently adding an affirmation of his own to his brothers' speech. "Gonna go kill us some o' those little gray runts."

Eiry pointed soundlessly…she wasn't sure she could have made a noise even if she wanted to…Ward and Wyl trotted off in the direction of the wheatfield.

Eiry turned and stared at Amie and Bevil, who stared back. "That was weird," she said faintly. Bevil nodded fervent agreement. Amie just shrugged.

They found Lazlo sprawled on the ground near his keg. Even from far away, Eiry could tell there was no point in running to him. He'd never lecture anyone else again. She willed her sorrow into rage and swung her old sword with all her might, managing to catch the closest gray dwarf by surprise, knocking him back with blood blooming across his tunic. Inspired, Bevil let out a violent yowl, and caught two with one well-aimed swing of his broad-sword.

A flicker of motion caught Eiry's eye, and she followed it to find Ian Harman lurking in the shadows of a nearby home.

"Eh, Eirylynn? Get away—didn't you see those creatures out there?" Oh, she had. With the help of her friends, she had _killed _them.

"They're killing everyone!"

Exactly. "You're part of the militia," Eiry said coolly. "What are you hiding here for?"

"What, you came to drag me out there to die? Not on your life—I'm staying right here!" Ian cowered back against the building.

Eiry was shocked…and angered…to see him looking so pathetic. "The village is surrounded. If you don't fight now, there's no chance," she said. "At all," she added pointedly.

"But…I tried to fight. There's so many of them…_too _many…" Ian whined. Eiry fought the sudden urge to punch him and knock a couple of his teeth loose.

"Others will join you, but you'll die alone if you stay here." The edge in her voice made it clear she wasn't promising _not _to see to that herself. Bevil shifted uncomfortably, looking ready to protest.

"All right, all right. I'm going. I'll meet you there—if I'm not dead when you arrive," Ian conceded.

Eiry followed hot on his heels, Bevil and Amie flanking her at either side.

A little farther along the road, they came upon Tarmas was standing in the middle of village green, facing an exceptionally tall dwarf…First gray, then tall and kind of purplish…Eiry was beginning to think she was hallucinating. But, no, this wasn't a dwarf at all. It was…something else. And it knew how to cast a mage shield, judging by the hazy glow around it—him.

Eiry hadn't moved, but Amie must have. Something caught Tarmas' attention. He turned his head slightly in their direction, shouting an order for them to stay back out of danger. As if to underline this point, the strange mage took advantage of Tarmas' temporary distraction to hurl a spell at him. Tarmas made a sound that might have been a curse, dodged out of the way, and threw something with a considerable amount of power in return.

"Master!" Amie cried, darting forward. She rushed to his side, throwing a pair of magic missiles at his assailant.

"So the whelp seeks to test herself," the mage sneered. A ball of fire sizzled from his fingertips, exploding square into Amie's chest. The smell that resulted was all too familiar…a horrible perversion of a bonfire celebration. Bile seared the back of Eiry's throat and the inside of her nose, making her eyes sting.

"Blast it!," Tarmas snarled, a note in his voice Eiry had never heard before. "The rest of you, stay where you are!"

Eiry was never to know whether she would have obeyed him, fear and revulsion keeping her fixed firmly to her spot, or rushed, hoping against hope, recklessly to Amie's side.

The bizarre mage with the slick, oily black hair, beady dark eyes, and somehow dangerous-and-ridiculous-looking pointed beard said, "it is not here," and vanished in a quick concussion of light, leaving three enormous spiders behind. Eiry prepared to cast a grease spell beneath their feet, figuring it might help, and she wouldn't be disobeying Tarmas, but the spiders were rushing her far too fast. She leapt forward, swinging her sword with wild abandon, raising her voice in a song that held all of her grief and rage.

Bevil was right beside her, equally determined, and considerably more skilled, and Tarmas wielded the staff he always carried effectively, with surprising strength. The spiders dispatched, Eiry sank to the ground on her knees beside Amie…brushing strands of heat-crinkled hair off her blackened face. Amie's golden hair was always so long and soft and smooth…until today.

"The stupid girl! I told her to stay out it!" Tarmas spat, but the rage was missing. Even as dazed as she felt leaning against Bevil's strong, solid legs, Eiry knew she heard only sorrow. "There's more to do," Tarmas added, reminding himself, deliberately distancing himself from the moment in order to do what had to be done. "Georg and the militia are holding our attackers at bay on the Starling farm. We must hurry before the tide turns. "

"We need to find help for Amie," Eiry said, but her voice was weak.

"Leave her," Tarmas snapped. "It's too late! We must hurry."

"She may still be alive," Eiry pleaded, but she knew Tarmas was right. Just as she knew if there had been a chance of saving Amie, Tarmas would have as anxious to see help summoned as anyone.

"The girl is dead!" Tarmas shouted, reaching out to grab Eiry and haul her physically to her feet, nearly knocking Bevil over. "Now move—" he gave her a push—"before we lose even more to this attack!"

"I want to help her too, but Tarmas is right. Amie didn't have a chance," Bevil said quietly.

Eiry reached out and touched his arm, but she looked directly at Tarmas. "Who was that mage?"

"I do not know," Tarmas admitted, unfazed that she would take the time to ask the question. "But he was clearly skilled in the Art. He probably led the attack."

"Even if he did, we can't do anything about him," Bevil reminded them. "Let's head for my family's farm."

"We'll go as soon as we can, Bevil," Eiry said. "But first we have to finish gathering every able hand."

"If you have time, make your way to my house," Tarmas said. "You might find some magical and alchemical equipment that would be of use—now go!" He strode off toward the wheatfield, robes flapping majestically behind him.

They slammed their way through Tarmas' locked front door and rummaged through his things, taking whatever looked useful or interesting, and hoping he'd forgive them for it in the end. Eiry suspected the Fochlucan Bandore might have been intended for her anyway, and the alchemist's fire and scroll of identify were things Tarmas could make more of easily enough.

A few steps further on, in the shadow Bevil's family barn, they found a woman Eiry vaguely recognized as part of the militia surrounded by what was probably the remains of the group that had attacked Pitney. Cutting a swath through the dwarves, they explained to her about the makeshift force Georg was amassing. "I think that's probably as many as we can hope to find," Bevil said. Eiry nodded.

They started to follow the militia woman, but stopped as a gray dwarf stepped out of the barn and into their path. "Heh…killed three of you surfacers before they took me down…and the ones I killed? They screamed one by one…_begged _me to spare them. My hands are drenched in the blood. If you have come to kill me now, so be it. It will not get their lives back."

"It's one of the attackers," Bevil said insightfully. "It looks as though he's dying."

"Then let's get what we can from him first," Eiry said as calmly as she could.

The dwarf laughed silently, looking as though he were having a convulsion. "You filthy half-elven, your kind is weak, you cannot stop us…we will…pile the bodies of your surfacer kin in their homes, set them on fire…a beacon to the rest of the villagers in this Mere that…we are coming for them."

"But why did you attack West Harbor?" Eiry asked, the question all-too-close to a wailing lament.

"Because we were _told_ to come, to search for something of silver—and we obey," the dwarf said flatly. "To slaughter your village in the process only pleases us."

"Object of silver?" Eiry repeated, trying to ignore the slow angry simmer heating her blood. "What object?"

"That is all we know…and that we would take it when we found it. That was our task…our orders, and we obey."

"So, you're…slaves?" Either way, she wasn't sure it mattered. He'd made it all too clear he'd _enjoyed _following his orders.

"We are thralls to our masters and we carry out their works. By their word, this village was to be destroyed and the object of silver found," the dwarf repeated.

"Who are these masters of yours?" Eiry demanded.

"You will meet them—and when you do, you will be butchered with the rest of your filthy kind," the dwarf said with satisfaction.

A red haze feathered the edges of her vision. She could hear the blood pumping loudly through her chest. Her sword arm swept outward like the crack of a whip, slicing a clean, sharp line across the dwarf's neck. Eiry hadn't known she was going to do that…she hadn't known she _could. _

"I…I'm not sure that was…needed…" Bevil reproved shakily.

Eiry tended to agree with him…that dwarf was dying. She hadn't needed to kill him to defend the village. But the satisfaction pumping through her veins told her that whether she'd needed to do it or not, she had _wanted _to do it. And she wasn't sorry that she had. "Bevil," she said with as much patience as she could manage, "you heard that thing. It didn't need to kill anyone, but it did, and it enjoyed destroying our homes and hurting our friends. Mercy is all well and good, but some things deserve justice."

"Well done," Georg said as they reached the field. "Now we have a chance! All right, militia! Ready your weapons and move out! It's time we stand our ground!"

The militia, Tarmas, and Eiry began to weave through the wheat, heading for the black unknown. But they hadn't even reached the edge of the field when a mass of dwarves and other unfamiliar creatures burst over them. Fearful of injuring friends as well as foes with her sword, Eiry did her best to hang back and shoot the enemies full of arrows. She even managed to drop a couple of well-aimed spells here and there…humming the song she'd composed about the militia to give herself courage all the while. It even seemed as if some of the others who heard it took heart, and the battle went far better than any of them could have expected. They were standing about, looking at one another in amazement, when the explanation appeared in the form of more enemies on the horizon.

As the group approached, a small number of them broke off and headed for the Starling house. Georg swore. If he hadn't beaten her to it, Eiry would have donr the same. Bevil glanced in her direction with pleading eyes, but she was already moving.

Georg and the others could handle a few dwarves more or less—even if they were grey. She couldn't let Bevil go alone—she spent so much time with his brother and sister, she might almost be one of them. Besides, while her arrows and spells were of some use, her sword was as much drawback as defense on the battlefield.

Retta was standing in the front room, flanked by the family wolfhounds, a couple of very dead-looking dwarves laid at their feet.

Since Retta appeared unharmed, if shaken, Eiry greeted her by asking where the children were, cutting straight to the threat that might yet remain.

As she had feared, the dwarves were between them and the closet where Retta had sent the children to hide. On the other hand, the door to the room that loomed between them didn't lock…it was Bevil who suggested they open it and let the family wolfhounds have at the dwarves. Surprisingly astute.

Eiry admitted as much, hoping the dogs wouldn't be killed. She was quite found of them.

Excepting a few scratches, which all looked pretty minor, the dogs were fine. In fact, they killed more of the intruders than Eiry and Bevil. The last dwarf had barely hit the floor when the closet door swung open to reveal Bevil's little brother shouting as if he were at the Tourney of Talent.

Eiry just advised him to shut the door, deciding it was better to ignore his excitement for the time being than to waste time trying to argue him out of it. "Lock it, and yell if you hear any more of them."

Bevil's sister complied immediately, looking contrite as she pulled the door closed behind her.

Eiry fluttered a hand to Retta over her shoulder in reply as she and Bevil darted back to the wheatfield.

Georg and Tarmas and the Mossfelds were standing more or less alone in the field, surrounded by invaders. Eiry yanked out her bow and began picking them off, sending arrows flying faster than she ever had before. Bevil waded into the fray, swinging his broadsword in great rushing sweeps, clearing the field as quickly as he could.

"Thank the gods that's over," Georg said wearily as Eiry moved in to join them. "We would not have held out much longer—"An endless sea of invaders seemed to be marching toward them. Eiry wondered if she was simply tired and discouraged, or if this group was really as wide and dense as it appeared. She raised her sword, determined to go down fighting. On either side of her, she could feel Georg and Bevil do the same. Under her breath, she began her chant. Then, to her surprise, Bevil began to sing too…and so did Georg. The enemy was closing in…as they drew close enough to engage, a hoard of angry arrows buzzed over Eiry's head. Dwarves and…purple…things…began to tumble down all around them. As one, she and Georg turned to follow the arrows to their source. "Daeghun!"

Eiry had never been so glad to see her foster-father in all of her days. He stood with an elven archer on either side—while she was glad to see them, the fact they were so few had to mean the elves of the Mere were hard to find…and considering who had been looking, the thought was disturbing—his bow in his hand, his eyes clear and steady. "Much blood has been lost tonight. Let us make the enemy pay in kind."

As if all that was needed was Daeghun's will, the battle was swiftly won.

The instant Daeghun began to murmur about gathering the wounded, Eiry darted off and did her best to search out every flicker of life remaining in the village…though most of them, however weak, were too large for her to carry. Bevil did that, displaying the gentle strength for which Eiry—and Amie—had always admired him.

All too soon, the villagers were counting their losses and trying to make sense of what had happened. Merring was able to explain that the odd purple things leading the dwarves were creatures from—well, out of town, Eiry hadn't really understood more than that—called bladelings, but when Georg demanded to know what in the Nine Hells they'd been doing in West Harbor, Merring coolly suggested he would have to rely on his own and resources.

A good general rule to live by, in Eiry's opinion.

"One of those dwarves mentioned they were searching for something," Georg continued. "Anyone know what it was?"

Eiry opened her mouth to volunteer that whatever it was, it was made of silver. And caught sight of Daeghun shaking his head almost imperceptibly. Daeghun beckoned her with a twitch of his shoulder…something she had learned through years of hunting with him.

To her surprise, the first words he said to her were an acknowledgement that she had lost a friend…had lost Amie who was so much more than a such a simple word like friend could ever begin to convey…in the attack.

For a split second Eiry was at a loss as to how he could possibly know. Then she realized Tarmas must have told him while she and Bevil were combing the village. "A tragedy." Daeghun said shortly.

When she was small and fell and scraped her knee, Daeghun used to walk over, pick her up, set her back on her feet, and tell her to try again. He had never been one to waste time drying her tears. Especially over things already done. Eiry swallowed hard. "The entire attack was a tragedy."

"Yes, and to dwell on our losses serves no purpose," Daeghun reiterated with the suggestion of an approving nod. He laid his hand against her shoulder. "I do not have much time to talk—there are many who are wounded, Eirylynn. Now, there is something you must do. Tonight."

"What do I need to do?"

"Very good," Daeghun rejoined. "This is not a night for words—but action. Those bladelings were here to find something, and I fear I know what. There is an item…a silver shard. Long ago I concealed it in the old stones outside of town. I fear it may have drawn these creatures down upon us."

Given the words of the dwarf by the barn, he was right to fear it. "I am ready. Tell me what I need to do."

"The stones outside of town are older and deeper than you may think," Daeghun informed her. "In the farthest chamber of these ruins, look for a strongbox—inside is the shard."

"Anything else?" Given his economy with words, she couldn't help wondering what he wasn't saying.

In answer, Daeghun turned crooked a finger at Bevil.

Obedient, if surprised to be summoned, Bevil joined them at once. "I need you to accompany my daughter to the ruins."

Bevil's protest sounded suspiciously close to a whine.

Eiry thought Bevil ought to have noticed by now—whining always made Daeghun even more inexorable. And now, Daeghun didn't argue or explain. He simply turned on his heel and left them.


	4. One Last Lingering Look

Note: At this point each chapter post is--or will be--a plot bunny or small fragment of what might eventually take place as either one very long fic covering both the NWN2 OC and MotB, or as two slightly shorter fics covering each storyline separately. While this is not cohesive story at this point, this is a long post.

Disclaimer: I do not own NWN2. Most dialogue in this fragment is quoted from the game, but I have tried to keep this to a minimum. The only thing I own is the character of Eirylynn Signe, better known as Eiry. This story is written solely for fun and not for profit. I love my stories very much; please do not print or post them elsewhere without my knowledge. Thank you.

* * *

Eiry and Bevil walked silently along the river. Each of them was painfully aware of the absence that walked with them. Amie should have been there. It seemed hours before Bevil slowed his steps. "It's been an age since I've come this far into the swamp. There are some twists and turns before we get to the ruins…and there's probably more than lizardmen out here. So…uh…lead on, I guess."

As if his words had been prophetic, they were rushed by a half dozen immensely overgrown swamp beetles. They moved through the swamp as quickly and as stealthily as they could, killing several nests of beetles and what appeared to be a couple contingents of lizardling guards before they reached the ruins.

Eiry was hot and sweaty, coated in mud and blood, panting with fear and exertion. She slumped against the cool stones of the ruins. "Darkness be damned," she said as clearly as she could manage. "I'm not moving another step until we get some rest."

Bevil paused, as if trying to decide whether or not to object, and then sank beside her. "I guess…that's okay… for a few a minutes."

When they woke up—in the dark—Eiry's legs were so stiff she could barely stand. She moved a bit, stretching out as best she could, lunging slowly forward and back, stretching out her legs, swinging her arms back and forth in wide circles in an attempt to work the ache out of her shoulders and the crick out of her neck. Bevil stared at her as if she were nuts.

She and Bevil worked their way through the ruins, killing lizardmen at every turn. Eiry thought they had killed a lot of them, but when she saw the army of them standing before the makeshift altar, she knew she was wrong. One of them—she assumed he was a shaman—stood behind an altar, intoning a prayer for aid in protecting the territory of his tribe from the other lizardlings. Eiry could only imagine the turn his prayers would take if he or his people happened to see her or her friend.

"There certainly are a lot of them," Bevil said over her shoulder. "Maybe this wasn't such a good idea."

Good idea or not, Eiry wasn't about to turn around and forget the whole thing. She would rather camp in the Mere for days than go home and see disappointment reflected in Daeghun's eyes. Anyway, the choice was no longer hers to make. The sound of Bevil's voice must have caught their attention. The shaman turned to look at them, and every head in the room followed his. "A warm-blood here? Your presence here offends the Stone God."

Well, that didn't sound good.

Eiry sputtered a hasty assurance they'd only come to recover something their own tribe had accidentally left behind.

The shaman was understandably less than convinced that this justified trespassing, particularly when sacred rituals happened to be interrupted in the process.

"It's needed to help save my tribe—something you should be able to understand," Eiry replied on a sudden note of inspiration.

The shaman ceded her the point by asking what she wanted.

Eiry hazarded to suggest that if the lizardlings allowed them to retrieve their artifact, she and Bevil might someday be able to return the favor without the least expectation the suggestion would work.

Much to Eiry's amazement, the shaman decided his people might have use for them and instructed the entire host of lizardmen to walk calmly from the room. Bevil stared after them, looking as confused as she felt. "I can't believe that worked," he said.

Eiry rubbed the back of her neck and shrugged. "Me either," she admitted. "But I'm sure glad it did."

"Me too," Bevil said devoutly. "This sure wasn't what I had in mind when we used to talk about adventuring!"

"That makes two of us," Eiry sighed. "I definitely didn't imagine all the dirt and discomfort!" She rubbed some flakes of mud off her cheek to make her point. "At least it's almost over—I suppose that's the chest Daeghun was talking about over there."

She walked over and knelt beside it. The lock had long since rusted away—to her luck, since neither she nor Bevil would have known how to begin to pick it. Wondering distantly if Kipp was okay, she drew back the lid of the chest. A faint glow washed over her like moonlight, making her blood hum. She reached into the box…and hastily pulled her hand back out, stifling a curse. A long, narrow, and thankfully shallow cut ran across the lower joints of her fingers. Steeling up her nerve, she reached in again, very carefully grasping around the razor-sharp edges of the oddly shaped lump of silver.

Less than impressed, Bevil informed her that Daeghun could run his own errands in the future.

Eiry shoved the shard into one of the innumerable leather pouches on her belt. "I'm with you," she said. "Let's go see what Daeghun has to say for himself." Though if she knew him at all, chances were it probably wouldn't be much.

The trip back to West Harbor was quiet, quick, and uneventful.

Daeghun was waiting for them along the road. "You have returned—and you have brought the shard."

How he knew _that_ was anyone's guess. Bevil—at least—didn't seem that interesting in finding out. When Daeghun met his disgruntled complaints with a steely cold order to go and see to the wounded, Bevil huffed off, presumably to do just that, following orders as any good militiaman would.

Bevil had barely turned away when Daeghun asked to see the shard with an odd note in his voice that made Eirylynn wary. He sounded both pained and…eager… Making no effort to show the shard to him at all, Eiry asked him what in the Nine Hells he expected her to do with it.

He didn't ask to see the shard again. Daeghun didn't normally ask for things he wasn't sure he wanted…but if he'd been determined to see it, he wouldn't have let her slide so easily. Eiry wished she knew what to make of it, but she didn't.

Daeghun informed her she was to go to the city of Neverwinter, find his half-brother Duncan at some tavern—who apparently had a second shard Daeghun hadn't seen fit to mention—and have both shards looked at by wizard. And not just any wizard, but one she could trust. He certainly didn't ask for much, Daeghun. Eiry snorted in disgust.

Deciding survival outweighed curiosity...however much she might like to ask why Daeghun hadn't mentioned he had a second shard…or a half-brother named Duncan, Eiry asked him what happened if the beasts tracked her down, which was really quite mild and optimistic, as she and Daeghun were both well aware there was likely no _if_ about it, but only when.

"That is possible—but this village cannot shelter you or survive another attack. On the road, moving, you have a chance." Well, the end of that sentence almost made up for its beginning. Almost. "Once you reach Neverwinter, it may prove more difficult for them to attack you," Daeghun concluded. Eiry wondered if she'd only wished the note of hope into his voice.

"Why don't we just dump this shard?" Eiry asked, suddenly weary. "Or give it up?"

"The problem is more complicated than that," Daeghun reproved. "If we give these attackers the shard, I doubt it will prevent them from believing the second lies with us as well…or others."

"Others?" Eiry repeated, her head beginning to pound.

"We found only two." Daeghun said. "But it is possible there were others."

"There's something you're not telling me."

"There are many things I have chosen not to tell you," Daeghun snapped with uncharacteristic sharpness. Eiry recoiled as if he had slapped her. She saw his eyes flicker, and knew he'd made a deliberate effort to rein his voice in and make his words more moderate…though impatience still simmered beneath the surface. "And that is because they are not relevant. Perhaps if you were to question less, and heed my words, it would prevent you from becoming confused."

"I've heard enough," Eiry said coldly. She didn't care to be insulted. Not even by her foster-father. Strike that. Especially by her father. "How do I get to Neverwinter?"

Daeghun instructed her to head for Highcliff—a nearby port town Eiry and Amie had often considered making one of their first stops when they took Bevil in hand and left the village—and seek passage to Neverwinter on the _Double Eagle_. In yet another thing she had never known about Daeghun, he was apparently friends with the captain.

"Say your farewells—" he unsentimentally concluded "—your boots may travel many roads before you return. I let some of the others know you would be leaving, but not the why of it."

"Why don't you take the shard to Neverwinter?" Eiry asked, her exhaustion and lack of desire to leave the village welling over into a flood of obstinacy.

"I was raised amongst the wild elves," Daeghun reminded her, almost gently. "And for all my years amongst the race of man, they make little sense to me." A condition that was largely mutual. Eirylynn felt her lip twitch. "Even though you are not one of them, you understand them better than I." That might have been an insult or a compliment…or just a statement. It was mostly impossible to tell. Eiry sighed. "I have done all I can to hide your presence. If the beasts come again, West Harbor will have need of me."

Eiry disliked the implication she would be of no use, but she knew there was some sense in it. Her weapon of choice had always been her words. And words would be of more use than Daeghun's arrows in the city. "Hide my presence?" She couldn't help being curious. "What have you done?"

"Created a screen of activity," Daeghun explained. "On a normal night, your trip with Bevil would have been easily spotted, but not tonight." So that must have been what had become of the other elves. That was, in a way, reassuring. "It may not be enough—but there is little else I can do."

In spite of his lack of affinity for them, Daeghun was apparently quite capable of spreading words when he wished. Most of Eiry's nearest and dearest were waiting for when she reached the village.

"Why, Eirylynn, I understand stand you're being sent to Neverwinter," Retta greeted her as she passed the Starling farm on her way into town. "I just pray you fare better than Bevil's brother, Lorne."

Suddenly, Eiry could almost see them again, tall broad Lorne and swift, sure Cormick, one so fair and the other so dark, standing in the path that led out of the village …Bevil's mother walking forward as if about to say something to Lorne, Bevil clutching her skirts in a chubby hand, being drawn along behind…they had gone to fight in the war with Luskan, and Lorne, at least, had never been heard from again. It had always bothered Retta that she hadn't even been able to give Lorne a proper soldier's burial.

"If I find out anything, I'll let you know," Eiry said, but without much hope. Finding Lorne in Neverwinter would be like searching for a needle in a haystack. A large grumpy needle, mayhap, but a needle nonetheless.

"Come back soon, child," Retta said warmly, but her voice was wavering.

"So, Daeghun is sending you to Neverwinter, eh?" said a bit too heartily. "Can't say I approve of it—but I don't have any right to tell him how to raise his child. Can you at least tell me why you're going? Your father wouldn't tell me a thing."

Eiry knew Daeghun's decision was wise. If Georg knew what she was doing the entire village was likely to know some twisted version of her quest within the hour. On the other hand, if taking the shard away from the village was supposed to protect it, perhaps that wouldn't be all bad. And in spite of Georg's big mouth, she trusted him. Besides, she wasn't really in the mood to be wise if it meant humoring Daeghun in the bargain. "I'm taking what they were looking for away from here."

"You know what they were looking for? What is it?" Georg leaned in, looking eager.

"A chunk of silver," Eiry said with a shrug. "It doesn't even look valuable."

"Obviously those beasts didn't come all this way for a chunk of silver," Georg said. "There must be more to it than that."

"It's possible," Eiry conceded. "I'm taking it to Neverwinter to find out more."

"That does sound important." Georg whistled. Then he warned her to be careful of the road, observing less than cheerfully that it had been dangerous before the patrols had stopped. And, like the druids, no one seemed to have any idea where they had gone or why. Just thinking about that, Eiry shiver slightly.

And then Georg said what the entire village would be thinking soon enough—that the attack on West Harbor might have been prevented if only the patrols hadn't stopped. The grief and anger welling up in Eiry's throat made it hard to breathe.

Georg, too, sounded a bit hoarse as he admitted he was sound to see her go. They'd always enjoyed swapping stories with each other while the rest of West Harbor laughed into their ale over watching them. And now all he could do was hand her his battered shield as a parting gift and murmur the wish that it might do her good.

"Oh, Georg!" Eiry threw her arms around his neck and kissed his cheek, surprising both of them. "I'm going to miss you!"

"So you're headed off to Neverwinter, are you?" Orlen interjected, his voice bracing, but sympathetic. "Just remember, you're a Harborman—"

"Aye," Georg nodded vehemently. "Remember that." He patted her on the shoulder and moved off into the distance.

"—and don't take any guff from the city folk. We Harbormen can take care of ourselves. We don't need any city walls to keep us safe. Here, take this, Harbormen take care of their own, not like them city-dwellers. You remember that." He pressed a potion bottle into her hand. The glass felt cool against her sword-hot skin. "If I had more to spare, I would and gladly. But after this attack, with the season we've been having…well, this is the best I can do for you."

Eiry slid the potion carefully into one of her belt pouches. "My thanks, Orlen, the thought is more than enough."

With slow reluctance, Eiry made her way to the front yard of the only home she had ever known. The ground was even more thickly strewn with bodies—dead and dying and still alive—than when she'd last seen it. Brother Merring looked up from the patient he was tending, brushing back the loose fringe of dirty blonde hair that always seemed to fall into his morning glory blue eyes, and expressed his regret he had been unable to aid Amie.

Eiry thanked him as best she could, assuring him—and herself—that Amie's death was no one's fault. _Except_, she thought so bitterly the taste of bile rose up in her mouth, _for that purple mage and whoever was responsible for sending him, of course._

Merring said as much, as if he could read her thoughts in her face. Perhaps he could. "A shame Tarmas couldn't send him to the Abyss." Merring brushed a soothing hand along the woman's brow and moved on to the next patient., observing that he would pray for her safe journey as the road to Neverwinter would not be easy. And, then, as if he felt the chill in her bones, he reflected the Mere of Dead Men itself seemed to be drawing away from Lathlander and into the depths of a very weary winter.

"Any idea what we should do about it?" Eiry wasn't sure why she bothered to ask…if only it were that easy…but, of course, it wasn't.

"That's the only thing Harbormen seem to want from me," Brother Merring sighed, examining his next patient. "Answers."

"We're a practical lot." Eiry shrugged apologetically, but not without pride.

"Being a priest isn't about answers, it's about keeping faith when the answers do not easily come," Merring explained.

"I have a feeling none of us will be seeing any easy answers for a long time," Eiry said grimly. "I'll keep your words in mind."

"May the blessings of Lathlander light your path back home to your friends," Merring said, inclining his head toward where Bevil sat on the stoop, his head in his hands.

"So, your father's sending you off to Neverwinter. As if everything that's happened tonight isn't enough adventuring for a lifetime—"

Enough…and more than enough for Amie's lifetime. Eiry's nose began to burn. One word and she would be lost to tears. But Bevil was kind—or preoccupied—enough not to say that word. Instead, he made a genuine effort to look on the bright side of things, telling here he hoped she'd soon be back, but his voice trailed off. Bevil, better than anyone, realized people who left the village didn't often return. Eiry wanted to promise him she'd beat the odds and come back home. But she couldn't. The best she could do was offer him the truth—or part of the truth. "If staying away will keep West Harbor safe, then that's what I have to do."

"It'll be a shame to see you go," Bevil said, sounding nearly as close to tears as Eiry felt. "But…the village will need every sword arm it has—we lost a lot of men to the attack. As a member of the miltia, my duty is to defend West Harbor. I can't just turn my back on that."

Which was true…and just as well. She wasn't sure what she could have said to put him off without offending him if he'd been set on accompanying her…and if he'd accompanied her…well, she'd already decided it didn't bear thinking about, as dear to her as he was. Bevil's tendency to complain aside, the pain of losing Amie was too fresh to be constantly reminded of it as they had been on the way to the ruins. But Bevil didn't need to know all that. "Good to know the village will be in safe hands," Eiry told him. And that, too, was true.

"I'll do my best to keep the village standing for when you return," he said, and only someone who knew him as well as she did could have heard the faint note of relief. "I want to hear about all of your adventures."

"As if you'll have to ask. You know you won't be able to shut me up," Eiry teased, with a good attempt at a grin.

"And if you run across the one that killed Amie," Bevil added grimly, "stick a blade in his gut for me. She deserves that much, at least."

Raising her sword in solemn vow, making no effort to check the silent tears sliding down her cheeks, Eiry nodded. "I'd better get going. See you around, Bevil."

She took one last lingering look at the unassuming place she'd called home, and slowly walked away.


	5. Weary Winds of Winter

Note: This is not a cohesive story at this point. Instead each post is--or will be--a plot bunny or small fragment of what might eventually take place as either one very long fic covering both the NWN2 OC and MotB, or as two slightly shorter fics covering each storyline separately. Also, in case you are curious about the title, it's a very vague reference to The Aeneid, where the Sybil writes words or letters of her prophecies on leaves that are scattered by the winds.

Disclaimer: I do not own NWN2. The only thing I own is the character of Eirylynn Signe, better known as Eiry. This story is written solely for fun and not for profit. I love my stories very much; please do not print or post them elsewhere without my knowledge. Thank you.

* * *

Wind whistled across the tangled masses of bruised and bent grasses, but the way it pierced her ruined woolen tunic was nothing more than a hollow mockery of fear. She clutched the hilt of the battered old sword so tightly her knuckles were white, and so long her fingers went numb. Far from feeling a life-line, however, the weight in her hand was wearying, a heavy and inescapable reminder of the brutal way in which all the ties binding her to West Harbor had been suddenly—and she feared irrevocably—cut. The silence of the morning, long forgotten, pressed in from all sides, closing around her like a circle of wolves. She could all but feel their eyes burning through the darkness and into her back.

She thought she was entirely alone. Or, at least, she hoped she was. But that thought, while rational, was far from comforting. She had wanted to have adventures, wanted to explore, wanted to find her own tales to tell. But not like this. Never like this. She was alone, and she wasn't supposed to be. Bevil was supposed to be here with her…with Amie.

Amie…Amie would have told her she was imagining things. Wolves had better prey…and as for …_things_ who might call her prey…Why keep following –and watching—someone so vulnerable to attack? Why not just close in and finish what they'd started? No, Eiry had to be imagining things. Just like she was imagining a conversation with Amie. Eiry sighed and gave her shoulders a little twitch, though she really couldn't have said whether it was her fears or her memories she was trying to shake.

She trudged along the path until she was afraid she'd forgotten how to stop moving. She felt oddly disjointed, as if none of the parts of her body were connected. As if none of them belonged to her. She felt as though she were watching herself from a great distance…and found the view without interest.

Part of her wanted to reach into the pack over her right hip and pull out the silver shard…to throw it into the marshy slough and not even see it sink. To be rid of it, as if that would somehow right the world gone so awry. Another part of her wanted to feel it bite into her skin, to know it was still there, still real, still giving her a reason and a purpose to keep moving, keep looking, keep trying.

She didn't know which she wanted more, but she did know that she didn't like feeling so connected to the damn thing…let alone the strange feeling that seemed to resonate from it into her very bones, re-energizing her when she'd much rather have just stayed spent. The thing was no ordinary silver, that was obvious, even to the mere hanger-on of a wizard's apprentice.

Of course, even if she hadn't known that first hand, she could have figured it out. Hordes of bloodthirsty gray dwarves didn't roll out of harrows like potatoes, for Chauntea's sake.

Eiry sighed, the sound and even the breath lost on the wind.

She was beginning to wonder if all of existence and all of time had simply ceased to be, leaving only this single path and her doomed to walk it for eternity…like one of the bloodthirsty tales Bevil's little brother so loved for her to spin in the evenings by Retta's fire.

Or maybe…just maybe…she had never woken up at all, and it was all a mad and unending dream…perhaps even now Amie was standing over her, trying to treat the fever that held her here…

And then she heard the voices.

For one wild moment, she hoped they belong to Bevil and Tarmas… even to Daeghun…and that only the fever kept her from recognizing them…but even before the hope had fully formed in her thoughts, she knew better.


	6. The Battle of the Weeping Willow

Note: At this point each chapter post is--or will be--a plot bunny or small fragment of what might eventually take place as either one very long fic covering both the NWN2 OC and MotB, or as two slightly shorter fics covering each storyline separately. While this is not cohesive story at this point, this is a long post.

Disclaimer: I do not own NWN2. Most dialogue in this chapter is quoted from the game, but I have tried to keep this to a minimum. The only thing I own is the character of Eirylynn Signe, better known as Eiry. This story is written solely for fun and not for profit. I love my stories very much; please do not print or post them elsewhere without my knowledge. Thank you.

* * *

Eiry's whole body was strung tighter than the string of a lute by the time a large building she devoutly hoped was the inn finally loomed into view. Turning the corner, she saw that the building was, in fact, an inn. And three humans were standing along the path that led up to it, facing one very irate-looking dwarf.

Apparently the humans had better ears than she'd assumed. "This is between us and the dwarf," one of the humans snarled "And whatever coin he happens to have with him."

Eiry suspected the human was a few seeds short of a row. Short or not, dwarves weren't exactly known for being pushovers in a good fight.

"Ah, you're welcome to try and take it," the dwarf in question nearly purred. "If ya, if you're all game…you can't be frightened of a little dwarf, now can you? If you're afraid of being humiliated in front of the newcomer here, well, that's another matter."

"We're not frightened of you," the man said, his shifting stance and anxious tone giving the lie to his words.

"Come on," the dwarf demanded, flowing into fighting stance. "Someone try to hit me, already…even the lass sees you're all too afraid to do anything."

"All right, I've heard enough of this—come on, boys, let's deal with the dwarf and his new friend." Eiry might have been inclined not to get involved, except that the human had already dragged her into it. As it was, she might still have stood back and watched, waiting to see if the dwarf could handle it. She suspected he could. But when the human's sword rang free of his scabbard, the taut string of her tension snapped, cracking through her in a stinging arc of anger.

She stepped in slightly, muttering darkly, and threw a grease spell beneath their feet. Then, raising her voice in the song of anger and grief that had just been born in West Harbor, she leapt into the fray without stopping to consider that she could just hang back and coolly shoot them all with arrows as her father would have done.

The dwarf's voice seemed to come to her over like the low rumble of thunder from a great distance only seconds later. Eiry stood, panting with exertion, a somewhat sheepish satisfaction pumping through her blood. The world slowly ebbed back in, and Eiry realized the dwarf was standing beside her…and he had never even pulled a weapon. "Name's Khelgar, by the way—of Clan Ironfist. Been making my way along the Coast for some time now, stopped in the Willow here for a brief fight."

"You seem rather calm, considering those men wanted to kill you," Eiry remarked.

"Yeah, it's a shame," the dwarf—Khelgar—said regretfully. "I was just looking to trade a few punches, then share a drink when it was all done. Either way, they get my coin—the way I saw it."

"Those men don't look as though they'll be waking up soon," Eiry said guiltily.

"Doesn't matter," decreed Khelgar. "They weren't worthy of a drink, anyway, bringing blades into it. A friendly brawl, I would have been up for, but robbery with weapons? So tell me, what brings you out along the Mere? Roads aren't exactly safe, you know—and they're getting worse all the time."

"I'm on my way to Neverwinter," Eiry said. Daeghun had wanted that part, at least, to be widely known, after all.

"Seems it's your lucky day, then. I happen to be traveling to Neverwinter as well," Khelgar told her.

Eiry wasn't sure whether or not Daeghun would like it, but it scarcely mattered. Daeghun was not there, and she was. And she certainly thought if a jovial—and somewhat eccentric—dwarf who could take down threee armed robbers with his bare fists was willing to tag along and fight off the things coming after her, she wasn't going to send him packing. "My lucky day indeed," she agreed wryly, thinking of all that had happened.

"Glad we see eye to eye—and when fortune smiles, who are we to turn away? I say we step inside the Weeping Willow here and trade stories over a few of the Innkeeper's best."

Eiry motioned for him to lead the way. Khelgar appeared to have a way with innkeepers, and she was soon propping her aching, booted feet along a bench near the fire, pressing her back gratefully into the corner. Khelgar eyed her thoughtfully, and said something to the serving girl that Eiry—sensitive ears or not—didn't catch. "Well, lass," Khelgar prompted, "what say you?"

Usually when people asked her that, Eiry knew exactly what tale—or at least what type of tale—they wanted to hear. Now was no exception, but she had no tales of tavern brawls to tell…though the story that rose to her lips unbidden might have come close. "Most villages in these parts celebrate High Harvest Day with a Ball," she began, slowly, almost dreamily. "But in one village, no one ever seemed to enjoy the Ball…until the Ball became a Brawl one fateful year…and the surprised young farmer who began the fight learned to his surprise that one was far more popular than the other had ever been…"

"Sounds like my kind of village," Khelgar approved, as the waitress set foaming metal tankards on the table with a heavy thunk…and followed them up with a plate of cheeses, fruits, bread, and even a few preserved meats. Eiry's mouth began to water. She tore into the food with right good will, washing it down with gulping swallows of a surprisingly smooth and creamy ale, as Khelgar watched, bemused. Hardly caring what he thought of her manners, hardly slowing to breathe, Eiry told the tale of the Harvest Brawl…of Lorne and Cormick…of the Starling curse…of three idealistic friends beaten into the ground each year by the bold and brash town bullies…of how they'd eventually emerged victorious…finally the flow of words trickled to a stop.

"Quite a tale you tell, lass," Khelgar said with satisfaction. "I don't know that any of my own will match it, but I'll give it a good go."

Eiry, stomach pleasantly full, leaned back, soaked in the fire, sipped ale, and let Khelgar's warm burr carry her away from herself, her troubles, her fear and her sorrow…

"…so then I punched _him _in the face for asking, and while he was trying to pick his teeth off the floor, his friend decided to add a few choice words about my heritage. So I punched him too. So, to make a long story short, I take pride in what I do—fighting. It's something you can't get enough of, and it's something where there's always room for improvement, if you apply yourself—stay focused and keep swinging. And that's why I'm headed to Neverwinter. I heard there's a house of monks there…a monastery, right?...heard they'll train anyone, just for the asking. Couldn't ask for a better opportunity."

Maybe Eiry had drunk more than she'd thought. "You want to become a monk?"

"Aye, that's the short of it."

_Said the dwarf_, Eiry thought. "Why a monk?"

"As it happens, I didn't always want to be a monk. See, what happened was—"

The door of the inn burst open with a loud clatter, and a bladeling stood within in its frame. "The _Kalach-cha—_!" The bladeling pointed directly at Eiry with one long, crooked finger. "Find it!"

"Well, look at this," Khelgar said conversationally. "Our next round of practice just arrived."

They did their best to clear out the invaders while protecting the patrons. Eiry was relieved to see that Khelgar didn't hesitate to produce a war-axe and apply it with great zeal to his opponents when it was necessary…and sometimes even when it wasn't. In fact, he was much better with the axe than she was with her embarrassingly ancient longsword.

"There's more of them upstairs!," a woman shouted as she ran down the stairs in question. "Please! I need help! Please, someone help me!" Eiry and Khelgar traversed the room, taking time to hit a couple of bladelings that just didn't seem to know when to stay down on their way. "There are more of those foul beasts upstairs!" the woman repeated. "They have my husband trapped!"

"How many more are there?" Eiry asked bluntly.

"I don't know. A lot, though!" Eiry heroically refrained from rolling her eyes as the woman continued. "They seem to be looking for something—please help, my husband is in danger!"

"I'll take care of them," Eiry told her grudgingly. After all, she supposed she had unintentionally put the woman's husband into danger…so it was probably only right she intentionally get him back out of it. "Stay here where it's safe."

"You seem to have a knack for finding trouble," Khelgar observed with a note of approval.

"Stay with me and I'll bring you all the brawls you can handle," Eiry promised, grinning suddenly.

"And that's quite a lot. Best hurry—don't want the creatures to leave before we get there."

They took the stairs two at a time—quite a feat for either of them at any given time.

The creatures must have heard them coming…they were waiting at the top of the staircase. Reminded of the time Wyl had tried to push her out of a hayloft when she wouldn't give him her meat pie at luncheon, Eiry hastily sidestepped before she fell down the steps, ducking as a bladeling aimed a nasty blow at her head. She spun, aiming a kick at the back of the bladeling's knee, sending him tumbling downstairs in her place, and hastily slammed her elbow into another's gut as it tried to sneak up behind her. She was quickly realizing that all that bullying the Mossfelds had subjected her just might be the one thing that ended up saving her life...she'd have to thank them someday, if she ever got back to West Harbor.

Khelgar rushed past her with a bellow. Shrugging slightly, she tightened her grip on her sword and followed as he ran headlong through the door of the nearest room. A man was cowering in the corner, surrounded by bladelings. Khelgar kneed the one closest to him in the back. In spite of the severity of the situation, Eiry snickered.

A bladeling lunged threateningly toward her. She shoved the sword at him with all her might, and felt it stick deep in his gut. Fighting the urge to gag, she kicked him, hard, knocking him back off the blade. An extremely awkward and uncoordinated backswing managed to deflect the blow hurtling toward her shoulder. Khelgar swung his axe under her arm, taking her attacker squarely in the gut. "Thanks," she gasped. "Don't mention it," he called cheerfully, slamming his mailed fist into a gray dwarf's ear.

Panting, Eiry glanced around the room, realizing belatedly that it was clear. Well, except for the cowering man…and he was clearly no threat. She wiped the blade of her sword along a dead dwarf's tunic in a vain attempt to clean it.

"Please," the man whimpered, "don't hurt me."

"Calm down. No one is going to hurt you," Eiry retorted. Surely it was obvious the bladelings and gray dwarves weren't with them?

"You won't hurt me? I…should…thank you then." He caught on quick, this man. "Those things were ready to tear me apart when you showed up…my wife…I hid under the bed while she ran for help." Quite the keeper, he was. "Is…is she safe?"

Nice of him to be concerned…even if it was after the fact. "Your wife is fine," Eiry said, doing her best to rein in her growing irritation.

"Oh, thank the gods! But…but is it safe to leave? Are there any more of those creatures?"

"Not between you and the stairs, there aren't," Eiry said acerbically.

"Oh, bless you! I can't believe I'm still alive!"

Eiry really couldn't believe he was either…hells, she could hardly believe _she_ was still alive, for that matter.

The man called his thanks back over his shoulder, already retreating down the stairs.

Eiry sighed and looked at Khelgar. "I suppose we best check the rest of these rooms in case more of those creatures are lurking about."

"I'm game if you are," Khelgar assured her.

* * *

Most of the rooms were empty, but in the last one they checked, they came across someone Eiry had hardly expected to see…Galen the Merchant. The two men with him were doing a good job of holding off the last of the attackers. Eiry and Khelgar rushed in from behind, helping speed the bladelings toward death.

Of course, now that Eiry wasn't sure whether or not she wanted to be recognized, Galen suddenly seemed to remember who she was. She acknowledged his greeting mainly in asking what he knew of the road to Highcliff.

"Highcliff? I thought you were going to Neverwinter," Khelgar interjected indignantly.

"I am," Eiry told him. "But I was told to avoid the High Road and take a ship from Highcliff." She felt incredibly exposed, giving so much away…and, yet, the dwarf had saved her life. More than once…in the course of a few minutes. By that light, she was probably volunteering far less than she ought.

Galen soothed her guilty conscience a bit by confirming he, too, had heard strange rumors of the High Road. He suggested Fort Locke would be a good place to rest en route, although from what he said—in his own self-interested way—the Fort appeared to be having troubles of its own. Then he shoved off with the observation he and his men seemed to be safer spending the night on the road, after all.

Eiry and Khelgar made their way downstairs to the common room. "You've done it!" The unexpected woman flinging herself in their direction made Eiry jump. Khelgar laughed. She turned and made a face in his direction, which only made him laugh harder…more or less as she'd intended. "Please," the woman continued, missing their exchange…or perhaps only ignoring it. "Take this with our thanks."

"I'm glad I was able to help." Considerably more so now that she had something, however small, in return.

"Thank you for seeing my husband to safety! We shall remember you in our prayers!" None too soon for Eiry's tastes, she took her husband's arm and moved away.

"Well, now, I've had a good time so far," Khelgar observed enthusiastically. "I haven't had this much fun since that tavern back at Bogen's Pass where I was using that table as a battering ram."

"That must have been a sight to see," Eiry said, shaking her head in amusement.

"Aye, lass, that it was," Khelgar grinned back. "Look we're headed in the same direction, and you seem to have more enemies than friends, what say we travel together? Might be able to teach each other a few things."

"Why not?" Eiry agreed. "It will be safer if we stick together."

"Good. I'd be glad for the company…and the conversation. Now that's settled…we best be moving on—I don't mind a fight, but I don't like bringing others into our battles."

Eiry cast one longing thought in the direction of a steaming hot bath and soft bed. "I don't care for that much myself," she admitted, rubbing the back of her neck. "Do you mind if we stop long enough to see if the innkeeper has any gear for sale? If we're going to see many more fights like this last one, I'd like to be wearing armor."

"Nah, lass, I don't suppose a few minutes will make much difference," Khelgar told her. "Have your talk with Jorik, and I'll have myself one last drink—for the road."

"Looks like we were lucky to have you and your dwarf friend here," the innkeeper—Jorik, apparently—greeted her. "You'll always be welcome here at the Weeping Willow. Those who survived owe you their lives."

Well, insofar as _you _meant _Khelgar_, the innkeeper was probably right. "Thank you. This is a fine establishment you have here."

"It certainly is. I've got the only warm beds between West Harbor and Fort Locke—only problem is, the roads are too dangerous for most travelers these days."

As Eiry browsed his small store of wares, Jorik told her the tale of how he'd come to found an inn—or find an inn more like—in the middle of a swamp, the only apparent remains of a village.

"What happened to the village?" Eiry asked, unable to resist the lure of a good story.

"Destroyed," Jorik said, the word sounding like a particularly ominous omen to Eiry's ears. "During the war against the King of Shadows. Big war from what I understand. Fought all the way across the Mere. Word is spirits from the battle still haunt the place where they fell. Now, I normally wouldn't believe ghost stories, but this _is _the Mere. Anything can happen out here…even dark dwarves attacking a small inn."

The whole thing sounded like one of Georg's tall tales. And, yet, in all the time they'd been swapping stories, Georg had never told this one.

Unfortunately, it sounded longer than any tale she had time to hear.

Eiry was pleased to find she had gold enough to purchase a serviceable suit of studded leather armor, as well as a healing potion or two and even a purgative in case she or Khelgar accidentally got into something poisonous on along the road. Jorik gave her leave to use the privacy of the storeroom to swap her clothes.

Thinking even more wistfully of the unobtainable hot bath, she stripped off her slashed and soiled hosen and leggings, donning a new, much thicker pair of cotton hosen, under an equally new pair of leather leggings. Removing her tattered leather lacings and tunics as well, she replaced the cotton tunic with an even softer cotton blouse and pulled a thinner woolen tunic over her head to help block the wind and cold awaiting her on the road. She pulled new leather lacings over them as tightly as she could, dropping a tabard of heavy leather armor over all, circling her belt and a couple of cotton strips torn from her discarded tunic around her waist. She shoved the rest of the strips into her bag, though they'd have to be well-washed before she'd want to use any of them as a bandage. Boiled leather plates with heavy studs covered her shoulders and upper thighs where they extended to just below her knee. Her worn boots back on, covered her feet and offered some protection to her calves. Finally, she smoothed the heavy leather braces meant to protect her wrists into place, grabbed her sword, her bow and her arrows, and went to collect her companion.

It was time they made their way to Neverwinter, and the answers waiting there.


	7. A Difficult Trip

Note: At this point each chapter post is--or will be--a plot bunny or small fragment of what might eventually take place as either one very long fic covering both the NWN2 OC and MotB, or as two slightly shorter fics covering each storyline separately.

Disclaimer: I do not own NWN2. Most dialogue in this fragment is quoted from the game, but I have tried to keep this to a minimum. The only thing I own is the character of Eirylynn Signe, better known as Eiry. This story is written solely for fun and not for profit. I love my stories very much; please do not print or post them elsewhere without my knowledge. Thank you.

* * *

"This has been, by far, the most difficult trip I've ever had through the Mere," Galen complained as Eiry dispatched the last of the swamp beetles she and Khelgar had encountered menacing the merchant and his men with a sharp sword thrust to the eye.

"Tell me about it," Eiry said bitterly, folding her arms across her chest.

"It's a good thing I pay my guards well," Galen said.

Eiry and Khelgar exchanged a look. Apparently he'd missed the part where they'd come in and exterminated the beetles his well-paid men had been grappling. "You're lucky we showed up," Eiry informed him shortly.

"We had it under control, whelp," snarled one of the guards. "Don't get full of yourself."

"Your gut's going to be full of my fist, you keep talking like that," Khelgar growled in return.

"That so?" sneered the guard.

Eiry raisied her sword in a very poor imitation of the guarding stance she'd seen Bevil assume so many times, angling it at the man's chest. "We can settle this right now…"

Khelgar lifted his axe and stepped in closer, preparing to cover her.

More disgruntled than alarmed, Galen made a sharp motion, and with one last sneer in Eiry's direction, the two guards broke away to continue down the road with him.

"Not to worry, lass…I'm sure there's plenty more trouble to be found if we just take the time to look," Khelgar sighed.

"That might be the place to start," Eiry suggested, pointing at the dark outline of a cave on the horizon. She knew she'd probably regret it, but she couldn't resist the urge to investigate. Her curiosity was going to get her killed some day…but not, she hoped, before it was satisfied.

"Eh, looks a bit tame to me," Khelgar grunted. "But I suppose even beetles are practice."

"That's the spirit," teased Eiry.

Much to Khelgar's satisfaction, the occupants of the cave turned out to be not swamp beetles, but lizardmen. The chief was, by far, the largest and most hulking lizardling Eiry had ever seen…and she had seen quite a few of late. He was also damnably hard to kill.

On the other hand, his death left them in possession of a Rod of Frost—the usefulness of which the battle had demonstrated—a heavy mace with a particularly dangerous-looking fire enchantment—Khelgar's brass-bound beard was still smoking— and a pair of supple leather gloves—which appeared to have been previously looted from elves or humans, as they seemed to fit Eiry reasonably well—and, last but not least, a dry, quiet cave with campfires already lit in which they could sleep for the night.

After the particularly long and arduous day Eiry had endured, she was not surprised to find most of the following day done when she awoke. Taking her bow and arrows, she went into the swamp and tracked down a couple of rabbits, which she and Khelgar cooked over the fire and ate with bread and cheese from their packs, washing it all down with a flask of ale.

"So…you said that as it happened, you didn't always want to be a monk…" Eiry prompted.

"Eh," Khelgar grunted. "Well, you see…"

Eiry leaned back and closed her eyes, troubles forgotten in the wild and funny scenes Khelgar began to describe.

"…monks," he concluded, "crazy, water-drinking fools. Hmmph. Hope drinking water isn't what makes them fight like that, though. And why is it you're off to Neverwinter?"

"I…that is…" Eiry sighed. "It's complicated. I'd like to tell you…but I'm not even sure I really understand it myself just yet."

"Ah, it's like that, then, is it?" Khelgar nodded sagely. "Well, you tell me in your own good time."

"For now it would appear that I am in your debt," Eiry said with a wry smile, "Would another tale do as well for the time-being? I'm of a mind to recount the tale of the wizard, the mead, and the greased pig…"

Just after dawn the next morning they shared a quick breakfast handful of dried fruit and gathered their things—during which process, she offered Khelgar the loan of the shield Georg had given her, figuring the dwarf would be able to use it far more capably than she could. And then they set out on the road once more.

As the sun was falling low in the sky, they rounded a bend in the road and found Galen yet again.

"It looks like your guards have turned on you, Galen," Eiry observed with dry satisfaction. "Maybe you should have let us teach them some manners after all."

"Ah… Are you sure you want to do this, Kalus? You do remember how capable our friends here are, do you not?"

"I'll take my chances, Galen. I've been on more campaigns than those two whelps can count," Kalus snarled.

"We don't need this—you're the one who wanted to keep him. He's your problem now, Galen" Eiry said flatly, moving a few steps along the road.

"I'm afraid I can't let you do that," Kalus informed her. "No witnesses. After all, we wouldn't want the authorities involved, now would we? Yarek, brother, attack!"

"Oh, spare me!" Eirylynn shouted, throwing her hands up in frustration.

Yarek kept coming.

She rammed her knee squarely between his legs, sending him staggering backward, looking decidedly ill. "I—" She pulled her sword free and swung at his solar plexis. "am—" She stepped moved in, waving the sword with wild abandon. "getting tired—" her elbow connected solidly with his jaw. "of being—" He staggered toward her. She jabbed her fist in his face, and ground it into his nose. "attacked all the—" She pulled back and drove the sword down at his head with all the pent-up rage she could muster. "time!"

Khelgar and Galen were staring at her.

Khelgar looked mildly impressed.

As she would have expected if she'd taken time to think of it, Khelgar had dealt handily with Kalus.

Galen licked his lips, looking nervous. "Once again you've saved my hide. Rest assured, the guards of Neverwinter will hear of the role you played in assisting me today."

The last thing Eiry wanted was to prolong his company, but… "You're headed to the Fort, aren't you?" she asked reluctantly.

"Of course, it's—"

"The last stop between here and Highcliff?" Eiry finished impatiently. "Yes, I know. We're headed that way as well…you might as well let us escort you there."

Galen eyed her warily. "And just how much will that cost me?"

"I wasn't planning to charge," Eiry said flatly. "Though perhaps I should. Look, you don't want to come, that's fine with me. Suit yourself." She turned and strode off down the road, more successfully than she had managed in her last attempt, Khelgar by her side. As she'd known he would, and hoped he wouldn't, she heard Galen hustle after them.

She realized, of course, that she probably ought to have waited. She wasn't sure how much further the Fort actually _was_, and the clearing in which Galen was attacked would have made an ideal place to camp. But, even if they'd discussed it, the likelihood was they would have eventually decided to keep going. Or so she told herself. The Fort couldn't be too far…

"Khelgar," she ventured after a while, "do you get the feeling we're being watch—?" She broke off, the faint rattle of brush alerting her to danger a split second before it sprang out at her. She ducked.

The wolf's claws raked over the top of her scalp instead of planting themselves in her chest. It hit the ground turning and sprang at her again.

Vaguely aware of Galen scrambling out of the way as fast as he could, Eiry slapped the flat of her sword into the wolf's side as Khelgar dashed up and planted his axe in its skull. "Thanks, Khelgar," she grunted, diving out of the way as the corpse thudded heavily to the ground.

"Any time, lass, no need to mention it," he advised her cheerfully.

Eiry gave him a wry grin and clapped him on the shoulder. "Well, Galen, what are you cowering over there for? Time to get mov—"

A lithe female figure darted down the sloping path before them, a trio of soldiers lumbering hot on her heels.

One of the soldiers caught her wrist, and violently wrenched her arm, making her stumble back into his chest. He grabbed her other arm with a triumphant smirk.

"I told you, I'm _not _with those bandits—or are you deaf and stupid?" The girl protested.

"Stupid?" the soldier repeated. "Here we were, thinking about letting you live…now you've gone and changed are our minds." His two companions snickered menacingly, closing in on their victim.

"Eh, hang on," one of them said. "Looks like she's got friends, she does."

"We've never met," Eiry informed them.

"Then this doesn't concern you," the soldier who'd spotted them said. "We're soldiers from Fort Locke, hunting bandits."

"That we are," his companion confirmed. "Caught this demon raiding our camp, and we're about to deal with her."

"By killing her?" Eiry asked, eyebrows raised. "What in the Nine Hells did she take?"

"You know," the second soldier interjected, "Vallis isn't one for asking questions…"

"Especially about a demon, a runty dwarf…and a dirty Harborman who doesn't knowing enough to keep walking," the soldier holding the demon-girl's wrists agreed.

"_Runty Dwarf?_ I know you cowards aren't talking to me, or you'll be talking to my fist next," Khelgar bellowed.

"Good enough for me," the third soldier said. "Let's kill them and sort out the tale later."

"Thanks for helping me out," the demon-girl gasped, wrenching her dagger from the last soldier's ear and watching him tumble to the ground quite a while later. "Guess I owe you, huh?"

Eiry wasn't one to turn down a favor. You never knew when it might come in handy. But she also wasn't one to claim favors she wasn't owed. "We weren't trying to help anyone," she admitted sheepishly. "They attacked us, remember?"

"Yeah," the bandit—or alleged bandit, anyway—girl agreed, her brow wrinkling thoughtfully. "Lucky me, huh?" The tension drained from her face in an instant. "Better to be lucky than good. Someone told me that once. It's a good way to think about things sometimes, you know?"

Eiry nodded. It certainly sounded good to her…and to a girl whose demonic heritage would make being good even more difficult than most people seemed to find it…well…

"Of course, they never would have caught me in the first place if that "invisibility" potion I bought hadn't been watered down. If I ever see that merch—hey!"

Galen made a vain attempt to scuttle out of sight behind Khelgar.

"That's him!"

Eiry rolled her eyes. "Give the girl her money back, Galen."

"What? There was nothing wrong with that potion—absolutely nothing!" the merchant insisted.

"Oh, yeah?" The tiefling leaned over Eiry's shoulder to shout back at him.

"If you can't use a potion properly, I'm not responsible!" Galen shot back, with more pluck than Eiry would have expected from him.

"Just give her the money, Galen," she snapped. He hesitated.

Eiry cast a look at the now nearly-black sky. "Now."

"I'm Neeshka, by the way, the tiefling explained, counting the coins Galen handed her with undisguised glee. Then, as she realized Eiry felt it was about time the little group continued on its way, "Do you…do you think I could join you? Just for now! I won't get in the way, I promise. It's just that I don't know how long I can survive on my own, and…well…"

She sounded just like Eiry had felt before she'd had the good luck to meet Khelgar.

Khelgar, on the other hand, didn't see the resemblance. "Can't say I trust her," he opined. "Tieflings'll stab you in the back and run off with your purse the moment you drop your guard."

"Yeah? Well, dwarves are squat, smelly drunks who'll chop someone in half just to show they're tough," Neeshka retorted.

Eiry's lips twitched. After all, they were probably both right. "This should be interesting."

"Oh, this'll be fair. I don't even have any of my gear," Neeshka lamented. "But please—let me come with you. Those soldiers will just try to kill me again if they catch me out here on my own."

"All right," Eiry yielded. Khelgar gave an indignant grunt, but didn't object.

"Thanks!" Neeshka threw her arms around Eiry's neck, nearly knocking her off balance. "I won't let you down, I swear!"

"How much farther is this Fort I've heard so much about?" Eiry asked when she'd managed to disentangle herself.

"Just over that hill," Galen told her, pointing, his relief evident.


	8. A Fellow Harborman

Note: At this point each chapter post is--or will be--a plot bunny or small fragment of what might eventually take place as either one very long fic covering both the NWN2 OC and MotB, or as two slightly shorter fics covering each storyline separately.

Disclaimer: I do not own NWN2. Most dialogue in this fragment is quoted from the game, but I have tried to keep this to a minimum. The only thing I own is the character of Eirylynn Signe, better known as Eiry. This story is written solely for fun and not for profit. I love my stories very much; please do not print or post them elsewhere without my knowledge. Thank you.

* * *

A strong square man at the tall end of middle height met them near the Fort gates. "Galen! I was beginning to think I'd have to organize a search party."

"I nearly needed one," Galen admitted. "I never would have made it this far if not for these two."

"Glad you managed to keep him in one piece," the stranger said, assessing them. "You look familiar. You're not a Harborman by any chance?"

Eiry blinked with surprise. "Why do you ask?"

"Harbormen are hard to miss once you've met one, and I've met plenty, being from there myself," the man explained, nodding as Galen muttered something in his ear and left. "I'm Cormick, City Watch Marshal of Neverwinter. You wouldn't have heard of me—the City Watch is hardly a glamorous profession."

"Wouldn't have heard of you?" Eiry repeated, laughing. "You're famous in West Harbor, or so everyone tells me."

Under the dark tan he'd acquired from years spent in the sun, Cormick suddenly looked a bit pink. "Ha! I don't know about famous. Wait a moment…you're Daeghun's foster child! Imagine running into you here! How's the old man these days?"

"I take it you knew my foster-father well?" If knowing Daeghun well was even possible…she supposed it was a bit of a relative term.

Cormick didn't seem to find the idea odd, even if she did. "That I did. We were quite a pair in our youth. The death of his wife hit him hard, though. He was never quite the same afterwards…but he seems to have done a good job of raising you. So, tell me, what are you doing so far from West Harbor?"

"My father is sending me up Neverwinter way," Eiry explained shortly, glancing apologetically in Khelgar's direction.

"You'll be making a stop at Highcliff, then," Cormick confidently predicted. "Be careful. I came down here to look into some rumors that the garrison had stopped its patrols. And, of course, it turns out the rumors were true. No patrols, meaning the bandits may be the least of your worries now."

"Tell me something I don't know," Eiry said with a grimace. "West Harbor has already come under attack." Hopefully Cormick would do his best to convince the city officials of Neverwinter to send aid…though she wasn't sure what kind of aid she was hoping they'd send exactly.

Cormick swore violently. "I told Vallis he was putting the village at risk, but he wouldn't listen!"

"Who's Vallis?" Eiry asked, figuring it was probably wrong to take a dislike to someone without at least knowing more than their name.

"The temporary commander here at Fort Locke," Cormick said in disgust. "For the sake of the north, I hope he's just that—temporary. I've tried to talk some sense into that thick head of his, but I just don't have the patience for all his rule-spouting gibberish."

"No good ever comes of being too enamored of the rules," Eiry grumbled darkly in commiseration. "Listen…I'd love to catch you up on all the news from West Harbor…" _and hear about your adventures with my father…_ "but first, do you think you could point me in the direction of a good bath, a hot meal and a clean bed—in that order?"

To Eiry's unending relief, he agreed immediately, leading them to a long, low building that reminded her rather strongly of a barn. She quickly decided it _was_ a barn, one the Fort converted into a kind of makeshift barracks, and milling with more people than Eiry had ever seen. It was staggering to think all of these people could be refugees, and yet, given what Galen, Neeshka, and Cormick had said…she had to assume that they were.

Really, when she thought about it, so was she…so perhaps she ought to feel at home here, though she didn't. The crowds left her tense and ill-at-ease. Still, the woman who greeted them seemed kind enough, assigning them each to their own room and dispatching people to set up tubs.

It took a long time and a lot of scrubbing, but when she finally emerged from the tub—hair dripping, fingers and toes shriveled beyond recognition—Eiry felt considerably cleaner. As she had nothing handy in which to check her reflection, she could only hope she looked considerably better as well.

Khelgar and Neeshka were already in the soldiers' mess when she arrived, swapping insults she thought might be mostly good-natured as they dug into bowls of thick, meaty stew. Eventually, Neeshka excused herself, ostensibly to go to bed, though Eiry had the half-amused half-uneasy feeling she might be planning to rifle through the refugees' belongings instead.

"So, lass…that was your village that was attacked…that West Harbor…was it not?" Khelgar asked, as casually as he could manage. Which was to say, not very.

"Yes," Eiry said simply. "It was." Gingerly she pulled the silver shard from the pouch hanging over her right hip and held it out to him. "Apparently they were looking for this…my father—foster-father, really—had hidden it in some ruins near the village. I don't know where he got it, what it is, or why they were looking for it. I do know they want it badly enough they followed me to the Willow to get it. My father, Daeghun, thought the attackers would leave West Harbor in peace once they realized the shard wasn't in the village, and he was right. He has that tendency. As for going to Neverwinter specifically, well…he told me to find his half-brother—until then, I didn't even know he had one—but apparently he does, and apparently his half-brother has _another _shard. I'm supposed to have a mage examine them…I assume to find out what they are, and why in the Hells anyone would want them."

Khelgar gave a low whistle, turning the shard over in his hand. "I can see why you were having trouble getting your tongue around that one, lass. I certainly don't know what to make of it."

"No," Eiry agreed with a sigh. "Neither do I. That's the problem." She reclaimed the shard, carefully sliding it back into her pack.

"Ah well, sometimes we seek out our battles, and sometimes they find us," Khelgar consoled her. "You'll know when the time comes to throw the first punch."

"I hope you're right," Eiry told him. "But, for now, it may be time to look for a good stiff drink."


	9. Off Chasing Lizardmen

Note: This is not a cohesive story at this point. Instead each post is--or will be--a plot bunny or small fragment of what might eventually take place as either one very long fic covering both the NWN2 OC and MotB, or as two slightly shorter fics covering each storyline separately. This chapter takes place the morning after Eiry and her companions have reached Highcliff.

Disclaimer: I do not own NWN2. Most of the dialogue in this snippet is not taken directly from the game, however, the only thing I own is the character of Eirylynn Signe, better known as Eiry. This story is written solely for fun and not for profit. I love my stories very much; please do not print or post them elsewhere without my knowledge. Thank you.

* * *

The innkeeper's wife offered her eggs and bread and cheese for breakfast…a meal Eiry was inclined to linger over if she could. But she hadn't been there long when a somewhat-stooped looking man in faded robes approached. "I'm Elder Mayne," he said. "I've been told you and your friends were asking about me?"

Eiry sighed and made a vague gesture that might have been a half-hearted invitation for him to take a seat. "I wanted to ask you about getting on a ship to Neverwinter," she explained, sipping at a hot tisane—she thought it was mostly mint—for fortification.

"Sadly, that is impossible right now. Every one of our ships is unsafe for travel at the moment…and every time we make repairs, the lizardfolk damage them again," the Elder told her. Others had told her as much. But there was more to it than that, or he would hardly have bothered seeking her out. Eiry took another bracing sip and waited. "Trade with Neverwinter has stopped, and without trade, this village will not have an easy winter."

That being the case, as she had no doubt it was, Eiry couldn't help thinking the villagers ought to have done something by now—if this was West Harbor, Georg would have had the militia combing the surrounding areas until they found the lizardmen. Of course, there was a good chance they wouldn't have needed to look—Orlen or Daeghun probably would have already known where they were. But this wasn't West Harbor, and it was all-too-clear what this Elder was working his way up to.

"I can't believe this. All I want is to get to Neverwinter," she sighed testily.

"As does the Captain of the _Double Eagle_," the Elder told her, right on cue. "I'm beginning to think you could be of great help in these matters…you certainly travel with interesting companions."

Eiry looked up from where she'd been tracing patterns in the yolk left on her plate with a crust of bread, and saw that Elanee and Neeshka were descending the staircase into the room.

"Hey, what's that supposed to mean?" Neeshka demanded.

"I think we've just been insulted," Khelgar's voice added from the doorway. He must have been drinking in the common room when the sound of Neeshka's voice had alerted him to the development of a potential fight.

"Just take it as a compliment you two," Elanee advised. She was already beginning to adopt a long-suffering tone that Eiry would have found funny—under other circumstances.

"I didn't mean it as an insult," Elder Mayne said mildly.

"Oh," Khelgar said, sounding disappointed as he dropped heavily onto the bench next to Eiry. "That's all right, then."

"So you want us to look into things?" Eiry said, cutting to Elder's chase for him.

"I think it's safe to say every one in Highcliff would be very grateful if you could resolve things for us," he confirmed with a slight smile.

"Where should we start?" It had to be done…and if she had to be the one to do it—whether she wanted to or not—Eiry supposed she might as well get started.

Elder said. Suddenly the Elder, too, was all business. He handed Eiry a map and told her to go talk to Shandra, the only farmer the lizardfolk hadn't managed to spook.

"Right," Eiry said flatly. "I'll get right on that."

The Elder laughed. "I'll leave you all to it, then. I wish you the best of luck," he said, and left the room whistling.

Eiry might well have thrown the heavy pottery mug containing her tisane at the back of his head…but Elanee snatched the mug out of reach. She must have seen Eiry's muscles tense. Eiry looked at her and made a face. Elanee raised her brows in response. Eiry snorted, and suddenly relaxed, feeling her face break into an unexpected grin.

"If we're going off chasing lizardmen, we best get you outfitted with something a little sturdier than that robe," she said.

Trying not to listen to his complaints that his skills were underappreciated in Highcliff…and not enough to compete with more established armorers in a city like Neverwinter, they browsed the wares the local armorer had to offer while several small dents in Khelgar's chain mail were repaired. After they'd made their selection and the repairs were finished, they went back to the inn and suited up.

"Hnnh…" Khelgar grunted as they approached a farm late that afternoon. "This looks like the place, but whe—"

A tall woman with curves that made Eiry feel like a very short maypole rounded the corner, blonde hair streaming behind her, rich brown eyes flashing. "Who are you? Whoever you are, you look a bit too important to be wandering out here with the common folk."

Khelgar might conceivably have looked…well, not as poor and laughable as the rest of their little group. But a swamp druid, a bard who hadn't even started her apprenticeship, and a tiefling thief…Eiry stared at the woman in disbelief.

Behind her, Neeshka snickered. "I'll say," she said sarcastically. "And," she added seriously, "We've gone too far out of our way already."

Eiry still wasn't sure quite why Neeshka was in such a hurry to get to the city…when they'd first met, she'd claimed to be heading in the opposite direction. But now wasn't the time to ask.

"Maybe you all better tell me what you're doing here," the woman said, putting her hands on her hips. Even in a plain, dirt-smudged tunic tucked into worn, mud-crusted pants, and boots that had clearly seen more than one season, the woman was a looker. Eiry felt a slight flicker of something that might have been jealousy and tried to ignore it.

"The Elder asked us to come here and track the lizardfolk," Eiry announced.

"Good," the woman said shortly, not sounding the least bit grateful or contrite. "Glad to see the Elder finally got wise enough to protect the grain shipments into Highcliff before winter hits. I've been alone out here ever since the others abandoned their farms, and I'm not sure how much longer I can hold out."

At least she was _trying _to stand up to the lizardmen. "It's brave of you to stay and protect your home," Eiry complimented her.

Unfortunately, that just encouraged the woman to launch into a rant about all the reasons she shouldn't have stayed on her farm. Clearly, she'd had a bit of time to think about her situation.

Eiry couldn't really blame her for being upset…she was beginning to know all too well what it was like to feel as though you had no control over your own life. Striving for patience, she inquired whether or not the woman happened to know where the lizardmen might be striking from.

That brought her up short while she considered. Eventually she suggested that while it was probably too far from water to be the main lair, she thought the lizardmen might be using the nearby Highcliff ruins as a staging point for their raids.

"Mark the ruins on our map, and we'll be on our way," Eiry said, waving the parchment the Elder had given her.

Shandra took the parchment and the burnt stick Eiry handed her uncertainly. She studied the map for a moment and made a few marks. As she started to hand it back with warnings about how the unlikely little band offering to help her should be careful not to make things worse, Eiry thought she saw a flicker of movement in the waving wheat just past the house, …something that might have been a dark oily green…a flash that might have been fire. She shifted slightly, making a vague noise of unease low in her throat. Elanee looked at her questioningly, and she saw Neeshka inch her fingers unobtrusively toward her dagger.

There it was again…several flashes that looked almost like Daeghun darting through the grasses of the Marsh…a flicker, and a thin trail of smoke that was easier to see, easier to trace. Beside her, Eiry could feel Elanee tense, and knew she'd seen it too.

But it was too late. The lizardmen were clearly visible now. The toss of their torches through the open doorway of the barn punctuated by the flaring sound of hay meeting fire, the lizardmen turned and ran.

Shandra flung herself wildly toward her small well. Elanee and Eiry raised their voices in unconscious chorus, casting rays of frost—rain would have been better, if only either of them had known the spell or been capable of casting it…but you worked with what you had—as quickly as they could. Khelgar snatched a couple of burlap bags from a nearby wagon and splashed them down with water from his canteen. The one he tossed at Neeshka nearly hit her in the face, but she didn't complain.

When they finally collapsed in the grass, panting and covered in ash, the barn was still standing…mostly.

Shandra stared at it in disbelief. "I let my guard down for a second—and they were waiting for it. Waiting until I got distracted."

Eiry shifted uncomfortably. She felt rather self-consciously round next to Elanee or even Neeshka—but—as Shandra's curves reminded her—she still didn't have a lot of extra padding. But what was really bothering her wasn't the hard-packed earth. It was the guilt that stabbed through her at Shandra's words…and she knew it. "I'm sorry," she said softly.

"This…this farm is all I have, and now that the harvest is gone…and with winter coming…Look, if you're going to help, just _do_ it. I'm so tired of Neverwinter and Fort Locke and the militia and the Elder and all of them promising to help us out and nothing ever _happening_. Just once—just this once—if you can actually do something for Highcliff and the farmers here, it'd be long past due."

"I _am_ trying," Eiry sighed, torn between sympathy and frustration. "Come on, guys, I think our welcome here burned down with barn. Let's go."


	10. The Way It Should BE

Note: At this point each chapter post is--or will be--a plot bunny or small fragment of what might eventually take place as either one very long fic covering both the NWN2 OC and MotB, or as two slightly shorter fics covering each storyline separately.

Disclaimer: I do not own NWN2. Most dialogue in this fragment is quoted from the game, but I have tried to keep this to a minimum. The only thing I own is the character of Eirylynn Signe, better known as Eiry. This story is written solely for fun and not for profit. I love my stories very much; please do not print or post them elsewhere without my knowledge. Thank you.

* * *

Eiry glared at the map, trying not to trip over her own feet as she started up the path. Elanee watched with what might have been concern in her liquid-honey eyes for a moment, then followed with an implied shrug. Khelgar shot a dark look in Shandra's direction and Neeshka stuck out her tongue as they passed.

"Those wolves," Elanee said as they rounded a bend in the road. "They seem agitated…as if something has…" she trailed off as if uncertain she ought to continue, then squared her ethereal shoulders. "Invaded their home."

"You've _got_ to be kidding me," Eiry snapped, stopping so suddenly that Khelgar walked right into her and staggered back, looking dazed. "Everywhere I go, everyone I meet wants me to do something—and I don't know _why_." Eiry reached out and helped Khelgar right himself. "Is there a sign on my back or something?"

"Well," Elanee ventured slowly into the stunned silence that followed, "the wolves didn't actually—"

Eiry snorted violently. "Don't be stupid. Do you think we can follow without provoking them to attack?"

Elanee considered. "I think so, yes."

"So…" Eiry prompted, raising her brows impatiently.

Elanee tracked the wolves to their lair, the others following her as unobtrusively as they could. Just outside the cave, they found two boys, surrounded by snarling wolves.

"Well, damn," Eiry said succinctly.

Elanee sighed.

"Think there'd be a reward if we returned them?" Neeshka asked speculatively, her tail flicking with thought.

"Does it matter? " Eiry glanced a question in Elanee's direction.

The spell of entanglement Elanee cast into the clearing was her answer. For once, Eiry was able to hang back, out of the range of melee combat, and use her bow…shooting songs at the wolves along with her arrows.

"Are either of you hurt?" Eiry asked as emerging from the brush she'd been using for cover.

One of the two boys stammered an reassuring answer and a few words of thanks. Eiry wondered why he seemed so familiar.

The boy stared back at her, his face apprehensive. "You're going to yell at us now, aren't you?"

Eiry doubted she could ever make her voice loud and strident enough to rival a pack of wolves. Besides, Daeghun had never yelled, and she had never failed to learn when she'd made a mistake for all of that. "No," she said reflectively. "I'm not going to yell. Why did you two come out here?"

"It was my fault," the boy said resolutely, squaring his shoulders. He was willing to take responsibility for his misdeeds. Eiry respected him for that.

"Da was tellin' stories about someone he met in the Mere an' how they fought off a thousand lizardmen an' evil dwarves and stuff. It didn't sound all that hard, so Alex and I come out here to look for some so we could fight them, too."

Eiry wished she could tell him not to wish for that…never to wish for that…but she knew he wouldn't have understood…and, anyway, all wishing aside, there would probably come a day when he would have to fight.

Khelagr began to laugh, and quickly strangled it off into an odd-sounding cough as Eiry cast a warning look in his direction…though she knew he saw the humor hovering over her mouth and at the edges of her eyes. "There was a fight, yes," she admitted. "But the two—"

"It was you, wasn't it?" The kid's eyes were as big as saucers.

Eiry hadn't thought he'd realize how she'd knew about the fight. "Do I look like I can take on thousands of enemies at once?"

"I don't know, lass…maybe not a thousand, but we cer—"

Elanee trod heavily across Khelgar's toes. "Shhh," she said sweetly as his face began to redden.

"Let alone with one of those toy swords?" Eiry finished over his protest, raising one brow with gentle derision.

"They _aren't _toys!" the boy contradicted indignantly. "It hurt when Alex hit me with his!"

Eiry decided not to argue the point.

"I hope you've learned your lesson," she said, more severely than she felt. "Can you get back home?"

"Yes…just don't tell Da we got into trouble…please?"

"He doesn't need to know how close you came to getting eaten," Eiry said. "Now get going."

"You handled that quite well," Elanee said as they watched the kids scramble off into the distance. "Have you children of your own?"

"No," Eiry said. "Though I hope to…" Or had hoped to…before the world had fallen out from under her feet.

"Eh, that's the life, eh?" Khelgar mused. "A whole clan of grandkinds sitting in your lap while you fill their empty heads with tales of adventure."

That was, indeed, exactly the life she dreamed of having. "That's right," she said wistfully, as trying to convince herself it was still within her reach. "And I'll be sure to tell them stories of the famous Eirylynn....They'll worship me."

"Ha! That's the way it should be," Khelgar said enthusiastically. "I'll have to find myself a comely dwarven wench eventually and settle down as well. Make us a whole clan of Ironfists, we will."

"I _really_ don't want to hear this," Neeshka groaned. "_Especially_ anything about comely dwarven wenches."

"So says the girl with horns and a tail. Don't be judging dwarven women too harshly. What they lack in stature, they make up for in spirit."

"Well, judging from how you handled those two boys, I think you will make an excellent parent, Eiry," Elanee said simply, ignoring the squabble dwarf and the tiefling.

"If the right man comes along, maybe," Eiry said, trying to sound casual when her whole heart was leaping from her chest in yearning. What the right man might be like, she could scarcely begin to imagine. None of the men in West Harbor had ever interested her that way…and the feeling was more than mutual.

"Bah. If you want to raise your children like a pack of wolves, listen to a tree-worshipper."

"And if you want to raise them like idiots, listen to Khelgar," added Neeshka.

Eiry looked at Elanee and grinned.

The druidess shook her head, but she was smiling…though the smile flitted away as quickly as it had come. "Do you see—"

"Smoke." Neeshka finished, pointing at a smudge hanging over the trees on the horizon.

They made their way toward the source of the smoke as quickly as they could, and found nothing but the still-warm ashes of a campfire. Elanee had just crouched down to examine them when a man came through the trees, carrying a string of fish. He stopped, looking immensely guilty. "Who are you? How did you find me? I'm not going back. I'm declaring myself a free man. I just couldn't take it anymore. The farming, the child, never any time to myself… I'm through with having her treat me like a mule."

Suddenly a lifetime of solitude wasn't looking so bad next to this ruin of the beauty of love. Eiry never, ever, ever wanted to end up like that…destroying the gifts the gods gave her…and yet, did one ever choose to end up like that? She shuddered, feeling the cold breath of blasphemy passing over her head.

"She wouldn't even let me spend a few evenings at the Blue Rooster. I decided to start a new life elsewhere. This clearing will do for now. Tell Juni I was killed by bears. Take my wedding band—that should convince her to stop looking."

"Running away isn't the answer," Eiry said, aware of the irony that in her case, it had been. Sort of.

"I disagree," Juni's husband said flatly. "Sure, I'm living in this tiny clearing, but it's my choice. No one's here to tell me what to do."

He made it sound so simple.

But it wasn't that simple…not for her. And, as for him…well, Eiry didn't know whether the love between him and his wife could be revived…but she wanted…no, she needed…to believe that it could. She needed to believe things that were marred could become whole and beautiful once more… if only you tried hard enough…

Even putting all of that aside, there were practical considerations. "With wolves and lizardmen out here, you'll be lucky to survive another night," she said bluntly.

"I suppose it is rather silly of me to think I could survive here for any length of time," the man admitted. "Very well, I'll return to Highcliff. Promise me you won't tell Juni where I was. I couldn't survive that—not with her temper."

Eiry rolled her eyes at him. Still, he had capitulated pretty easily…and she hoped that meant he secretly wanted to return home make things right. "I promise."

"Let's both hope she never finds out, the man said devoutly." He turned to set off for home the man made a decision, he appeared to want to act on it. Other than convincing him to leave the fire and part of the string of fish behind, Eiry didn't try to stop him. Whatever else became of the incident…it did provide her—and her companions—with a lovely lunch, and she supposed that was to the good.


	11. Highcliff Ruins

Note: At this point each chapter post is--or will be--a plot bunny or small fragment of what might eventually take place as either one very long fic covering both the NWN2 OC and MotB, or as two slightly shorter fics covering each storyline separately.

Disclaimer: I do not own NWN2. Most dialogue in this fragment is quoted from the game, but I have tried to keep this to a minimum. The only thing I own is the character of Eirylynn Signe, better known as Eiry. This story is written solely for fun and not for profit. I love my stories very much; please do not print or post them elsewhere without my knowledge. Thank you.

* * *

They quickly discovered that finding the lizardmen—or at least a lizardman—proved to be as easy as approaching the Highcliff castle ruins.

"Stay back," he shouted, though whether he was talking to them or to the tangle of undead surrounding him was not certain. Eiry ignored him, moving in closer to slash her sword along the back of one zombie's knees, cutting across another's back with a still undisciplined backswing. She probably could have held back and used her shortbow, but in spite of the fact it was a bit safer, she had to admit she was quickly beginning to prefer the feeling power that came with immediacy of melee combat…archery was about discipline, but the sword…that was about _control_. And control was something she desperately wanted to take.

"Slaan not fight you," the lizardman hissed as their swords accidentally crossed. He drew back, looking ready to flee at any moment. "Slaan must get help!"

"Help?" Eiry repeated, puzzled. The battlefield was clear, now.

"Slaan leads clan here to sink human boats," the lizardman explained, still poised to run. "Dead ones attack Slaan's warriors. Slaan escape. Slaan must ask chief for more warriors to fight."

These undead might or might not be a sign of a necromancer like the one Tann had encountered…but what they were, and what Eiry knew they were, was a threat—to the lizardmen…and to Highcliff. "If I help you save your clansmen, will you take me to your chief?"

"How can Slaan trust you? You might attack chief."

She might. If she had to. But…she thought she had a better idea. "I just want to talk. We might solve the problem in Highcliff without more violence." She hoped. How she hoped.

The lizardman must have decided he believed her. He headed for what had once been the door to the castle, announcing his men were being held below.

Eiry hastily summoned her trusty globe of light as she followed, and was glad she had. Not only was the hall filled with undead, but Neeshka spotted several pretty ugly-looking traps.

"Think you could teach me to do that?" she asked, as she watched Neeshka carefully fiddle with the last one until it was disabled.

"What this? You mean…you really want to learn?" Neeshka looked startled.

"Why not?" Eiry asked, amused by her reaction. "It seems to come in useful."

"Oh, well, I've never tried to show anyone how to do it before, but sure…I'm game if you are!"

"Good," Eiry grunted, shifting quickly to the right and sticking out her foot. She brought her blade down across the neck of the zombie who'd tried to sneak up behind her.

Soon, she began to hear voices drifting down the hall.

"I think I hear someone talking about the necromancer we killed near Fort Locke," Eiry hissed to her companions her stomach sinking, "It sounds like Tann was right…that necromancer had friends…and they're planning an attack—I think."

"Hnh," Khelgar grunted irritably. "That doesna bode well."

"Be quiet, rocks-for-brains," Neeshka admonished. "What else are they saying, Eiry?"

"War? Master?" Eiry was digging for her scribe-stick. "Could he be talking about the King of Shadows? But…I thought he led an army of demons…not undead."

They approached a room with the door standing ajar, and found one of the people Eiry had heard, but—for the life of her—she couldn't see who he'd been talking _to_.

The figure in the black robe and odd mask raised his hands, raising zombies and skeletons from the corpses scattered about the floor.

They killed the priest and took his boots. He also had a pretty serviceable magic wand. Neeshka's eyes lit up like a kid's at the sight of it, so the rest of the group was happy to let her have it.

"We'll have to tell Cormick about this when we get to Neverwinter," Eiry said grimly. "He'll be able to send word to Fort Locke."

They found a locked room at the end of the hall, and Neeshka unlocked it, revealing Slaan's missing men.

Who, apparently, would have preferred to stay locked up with the potential for becoming undead if being rescued by _warmbloods_ happened to be the alternative.

"These warmbloods different," Slaan said staunchly. "Fight well, have honor. Slaan bring them to see chief."

The warriors escorted them to the lizardling camp, radiating disapproval.

"Slaan is foolish," the chief decreed when he heard what had occurred.

Eiry snorted. If you asked her, Slaan was reasonable—willing to see past the boundaries of his everyday and do what had to be done in order to survive. Hells, he'd not only saved himself, he'd saved his men…not that any of them were going to thank him for it. Doing the right thing was…well…right…but sometimes, it might be nice if someone appreciated that it wasn't always easy.

"What do you want, warmblood?" the chief addressed her directly. Well, that was something.

"I want you to stop attacking Highcliff ships," Eiry said, spelling it out as clearly as she could. Better not to leave any room for misunderstanding.

"No," the chief said flatly. "This is our new home, and warmbloods always hunt our kind if they live on our lands."

Eiry was willing to admit that was probably true…and she was beginning to learn it wasn't at all nice to be hunted. But, really, in this case… "Highcliff was here before you. Why move close to it if you don't want to be hunted?"

"Warmbloods can live somewhere else," the chief announced. "Lizardfolk need to be close to the water. Maybe warmbloods go away if we break boats."

Eiry sucked in a deep breath, willing herself to be calm. "So, if the village agrees to stop making trouble and stay away, you'll stop the attacks?"

"We do not trust warmbloods."

_Really? I hadn't noticed._ "I can convince the village to leave you in peace," Eiry insisted. It was true, because it _had_ to be true. She would make it true. Somehow.

"If you can promise this, clan will stop attacks," the chief conceded after a long pause. "But if warmbloods hurt member of clan…"

"You'll let the Village Elder know so he can put a stop to it," Eiry informed him, her voice firm. That, too, she had learned from Daeghun. Stating a thing as if it were a fact often made others believe that it was.

"Chief trusting you. Do not fail or warmbloods will suffer…now go."

She had gotten what she'd come for.


	12. Acts of Circumstance

Note: At this point each chapter post is--or will be--a plot bunny or small fragment of what might eventually take place as either one very long fic covering both the NWN2 OC and MotB, or as two slightly shorter fics covering each storyline separately.

Disclaimer: I do not own NWN2. Most dialogue in this fragment is quoted from the game, but I have tried to keep this to a minimum. The only thing I own is the character of Eirylynn Signe, better known as Eiry. This story is written solely for fun and not for profit. I love my stories very much; please do not print or post them elsewhere without my knowledge. Thank you.

* * *

When they got back to town, Eiry sent the others on ahead to ask the innkeeper to send a message to the Elder and to have the innkeeper's wife prepare their dinner, and asked around town until someone directed her to the little house where Juni and her husband lived. "Thank you for finding my husband," the woman hanging laundry in the yard greeted her. "He just returned a short while ago. Something happened to him while he was out there, but he won't talk about it. He just seems so…sad."

And with those words, Eiry knew that Juni still felt love for her husband and was comforted.

Juni promptly soured the moment by adding he could help with the chores.

"Maybe you should let him relax a little first," Eiry said, which was more or less what she'd come here to say. "He went through some very difficult times." _Or so he seems to think_.

"Perhaps you're right," Juni said, softening for a moment. "However there's so much to do around the farm. He can relax when the crops are taken care of. Here, take this. It's all I have to offer you for what you've done, but take it with my gratitude." Eiry took the little pouch with mixed feelings. She appreciated the gesture, but she would have rather known Juni would let her husband have a drink at the Blue Rooster on occasion. "Now then," Juni added, "I must restore some order to our home. Thank you again."

Her words were truer than she knew. Eiry sighed softly to herself and went to rejoin her companions at the inn. To her surprise, some other familiar faces were awaiting her inside.

"You probably don't remember me," the man said. "You saved my life back at the Weeping Willow."

"Of course I remember," Eiry said. "What are you two doing here?"

"This is our home," the man's wife explained. We were returning from a visit with one of Zachan's relatives in West Harbor—"

"You have relatives in West Harbor?" Eiry demanded, amazed. "I might know them—I grew up in West Harbor."

"So you're familiar with the Buckmans then?" Zachan asked.

"Of course," Eiry assured him. "Lazlo makes—well, made—the best mead in town."

"Made?" Zachan repeated in confusion. "What on Faerun do you mean?"

Eiry winced. "Oh, damn. You hadn't heard?"

"Heard? Heard what?"

"West Harbor…was…attacked…just before we met at the inn. And…Lazlo…I'm sorry."

"Ah, child, it's hardly your fault," Zachan's wife soothed...just a bit belatedly. "We know you did what you could…After all, Zachan and I owe you so much…we came to thank you for finding the boys."

Ah, then this probably was the Gera the Elder had mentioned. Small world.

"Yes," Zachan said. "Ilmater bless you."

_Is a blessing from the god of martyrs a good thing? And if it isn't, how much bad luck am I in for now that I've had two?_ Eiry wondered with a mix of ironic amusement and unease. "I'm just glad the boys are safe."

"Andrew shall be raised to have the same honor and character you possess," Zachan proclaimed.

_Poor kid._

"Are you sure that's such a good idea?" Eiry asked him.

He had the grace to blush. "This is embarrassing. I want my son to grow up to have the courage I lack. I was hoping that he'd find a role model in you."

"Zachan, you fool," Gera said, not without affection, which made Eiry smile, "Do you truly believe that of yourself? The two of us are going to need to have a little talk."

The two of them went to have their talk, and she went to have her dinner.

She was sitting by the common room fire, plucking idly at the strings of the bandore she'd taken from Tarmas' house as Khelgar and Neeshka traded insults when the Elder walked in. "You have news?" he asked, pulling up a chair.

"The lizardfolk have a deal they want to make with you," Eiry said, striking a chord.

"You cannot trust those beasts. They have just enough intelligence to avoid killing their own young!" He must have seen the flash in Eiry's eyes. He stopped and cleared his throat. "But…I will listen."

"They've agreed to leave Highcliff alone," Eiry said shortly, hoping the words made him feel ashamed of his outburst. "If the village agrees not to trespass into their territory." She paused to hand him a map Slaan had helped her sketch, clearly marking boundaries, and resumed her idle play upon the instrument.

"How were we supposed to know our village was so close to their lair?" The Elder sighed. "Surely it would be easier if they were to find another home along the Sword Coast?" Eiry inclined her head slightly. When the chieftan had first brought it up, she'd felt the same way. "The thought of lizardmen living so close to our village…I don't like this."

"The chieftan thinks it might be easier if the village were to relocate…along the Coast," Eiry said, shaking her head and smiling slightly as she struck another chord. "He doesn't like… warmbloods…living so close to his lair. The lizardfolk fled the Mere and resettled…" She caressed a wistful series of strings. "Whatever reason they have for stopping here and not moving on to somewhere else…they just want to be left alone. On my word." The bandolore resonated emphatically beneath her hand.

"Their word may be good enough for you, but I—and this village—will have to live or die by such a decision."

_Then perhaps you should have taken care of it yourself. _ Eiry shrugged, trailing her fingers along the bandore strings. "I found their chieftan to be reasonable and honorable. He will hold up his end of the bargain." It was true, because it had to be true.

And, as she had told Khelgar, the Elder didn't really have a choice. He'd told her as much himself at breakfast. She waited in silence, her fingers walking a path of their own making, telling a story she didn't yet know or understand.

"I shall trust your judgment in this," he said at last. _It seems I am not the only one forced to act against my will by circumstance_, Eiry mused, watching him. "You have already done more for my village than I could ever hope for."

Eiry nearly dropped the bandaore in shock. "Thank you."

"Forgive me for my obstinance," he concluded, surprising her still further. "It is the weakness of an old man."

"And defying weakness is the act of a great man," Eiry responded as soon as she'd regained the power of speech.

"Thank you," the Elder said, taking his turn to be surprised.

Eiry grinned. "My time in Highcliff has been…enlightening…and I am grateful for it, but I must admit I hope I have a ship to catch."

The Elder laughed outright.


	13. Double Eagle

Note: At this point each chapter post is--or will be--a plot bunny or small fragment of what might eventually take place as either one very long fic covering both the NWN2 OC and MotB, or as two slightly shorter fics covering each storyline separately. While this is not cohesive story at this point, this is a long post.

Disclaimer: I do not own NWN2. The only thing I own is the character of Eirylynn Signe, better known as Eiry. This story is written solely for fun and not for profit. I love my stories very much; please do not print or post them elsewhere without my knowledge. Thank you.

* * *

The repairs to the _Double Eagle_ took the better of a week. The first couple of days, Eiry spent a lot of time in the Blue Rooster, trying every method she could think of to get stories about Daeghun about of Captain Flynn. Unfortunately, Flynn was too drunk to make much sense most of the time. She sincerely hoped he wasn't like that with the deck of ship beneath him…but Daeghun had seemed to think he was competent. Though it seemed she was never to know _why_. Luckily, whenever she got too frustrated, Khelgar was there to help her let off steam by starting a good fight.

As promised, Neeshka spent some time showing Eiry the most basic principles of disarming traps without injuring herself in the process…an activity that also gave Eiry plenty of practice in casting basic healing spells. To Neeshka's delight, some of their lessons were...applied. Eiry soothed her conscience with the idea that she was able to convince Neeshka to take less when she was along…and, right or wrong, the money would be needed when they reached the city. The expedient was often necessary to survive. The admirable, however much she might wish to achieve it, often was not.

Most of the rest of Eiry's time was spent in telling tales and singing songs…she enjoyed it, the townsfolk enjoyed it, and sometimes she even made a few coins to add to her purse against the expenses she foresaw awaiting her in Neverwinter.

Elanee spent most of her time lingering on the outskirts of the village. Eiry had an idea the elf was soaking up as much of the wild as she could to sustain her in the heart of the city. For one of Elanee's ilk, walking into Neverwinter must feel very much like walking into a cage. Eiry wasn't sure why Elanee was prepared to make such a sacrifice…and one the necessity of which was questionable. Nonetheless Elanee seemed determined to accompany them.

Perhaps she simply had nowhere outside of the Mere to go…Eiry's gut instinct told her it was best to listen to the bear-druid's warning that Elanee should not return to the Mere, and she hadn't known him as Elanee had. Whatever the truth of it, Eiry certainly didn't object to Elanee's continued company, and Neeshka and Khelgar both seemed to accept it—Khelgar with reservations, and Neeshka apparently without. All-in-all Eiry felt it best to give Elanee time and space. Consequently, the group saw little of her until the day Captain Flynn sobered up enough to mention the _Double Eagle _was ready to sail.

Grishnak, the half-orc pirate, hadn't even hauled anchor when Khelgar began to look more than a little green. He spent most of his time in the main crew cabin, huddled in his bunk. The hammocks hung in the tiny store-room off the Captain's office for Eiry, Elanee, and Neeshka were, luckily enough, only expected to bear their weight at night. Elanee couldn't easily bear to see suffering in any living thing, and spent most of the trip caring for Khelgar—who, if not appropriately grateful, was at least in no fit state to complain—while the badger who served as her companion curled in bunk left empty below Khelgar's feet.

Neeshka made the occasional foray into the hold and galley mess, but mostly she stayed on deck, rolling dice with Eiry and Grishnak. Dicing—with a tiefling and a half-orc pirate, no less—on the deck of a sailing ship was fun, but so far removed from anything Eiry might ever have imagined taking place in her quiet, hidden life that she often felt tangled in a web of waking dream. Even if she was dreaming, however, there seemed to be little she could do…except perhaps enjoy it while it lasted.

In between games, she sometimes made a half-hearted attempt to be useful, doing bits of odd jobs for Captain Flynn. She spent a lot of time mending fishing nets. The sailors seemed mightily amused by her attempts, and milled around, attempting to show her how to tie a better knot, which Eiry found funny and frustrating, all at once.

The sailors took turns regaling her with hair-raising stories of the storms each of them had braved in the little loft perched high upon the mast, a niche the sailors called the eagle's nest, peering desperately through gloom and gale in search of land. And then they got it into their heads that--as the Captain seemed to have taken her under his wing…for reasons none of them, Eiry included, could quite seem to fathom—Eiry, too, should brave the eagle's nest.

Eiry was of the secret opinion it was all quite ridiculous…but, it reminded her of the dares she, Amie, and Bevil, used to swap with the Mossfelds…and the sailors were all looking at her with much the same expression of affectionate expectation Bevil would have had…and before she knew, she was stripping off her boots, gripping the spray-slickened rope rigging with white-knuckled fists, and clambering aloft for all she was worth, doing her best not to look down.

She'd never felt quite so…vulnerable…climbing the tallest trees of the Mere, but…she supposed, deep down, she'd always secretly trusted that Daeghun would never let her fall…or that he'd somehow be there to catch her if she did. That was a weirdly disconcerting thought…an echo of her shocked realization—Daeghun was reliable, even if he'd always seemed impossibly, painfully, remote.

The realization caught her by surprise, nearly knocking her off balance. She put out a hand to steady herself, resting her cheek against the reassuring solid roughness of the mast, and caught sight of something, like a smudge, hovering ever-so-indistinctly at the edge of the horizon. She stretched out a hand, pointing, and called down to the sailors, asking what it was.

"Land ho!" The one nearest shouted when she'd finally managed to make herself understood. Instantly, the others around him caught up the hue and cry.

"What did you call me?" She demanded, half-fun full-serious as Georg had been used to say. She eased her grip and braced herself with her feet, skidding down along the mast rather more quickly than she'd intended.

"Not you, my lass," the sailor explained, reaching up and catching her by the waist. "The city—you've just seen your first sight of Neverwinter, you have." He swung her easily down to the deck. "And that means you've earned the gold piece what the Captain offers to the first one to spot land—that there's tradition, that is."

"Oh," Eiry said profoundly. "Well. I'll be damned."

The sailors around her whooped and hooted as they clapped their hands.

It appeared she'd been adopted. Again. She hoped she proved to be less of a disappointment this time around.


	14. The Hedge Wizard's Riddle

Note: This is not a cohesive story at this point. Instead each post is--or will be--a plot bunny or small fragment of what might eventually take place as either one very long fic covering both the NWN2 OC and MotB, or as two slightly shorter fics covering each storyline separately. This chapter takes place immediately after Sand has scryed the first shard and taken leave of the group at the Sunken Flagon.

Disclaimer: I do not own NWN2. Most of the dialogue in this snippet is not taken directly from the game, however, the only thing I own is the character of Eirylynn Signe, better known as Eiry. This story is written solely for fun and not for profit. I love my stories very much; please do not print or post them elsewhere without my knowledge. Thank you.

* * *

Eiry stared after him, then shrugged slightly and braced her hands against the table, ready to push herself to her feet.

"Here, now, lass," Duncan said, eyeing her sharply. "Where do you think you're going?"

"I'm going to find my way into trouble, like the elf said," Eiry said flatly, and began to laugh.

"Perhaps you should break your fast," Elanee said softly. "You look a bit pale and dazed."

"I'm fine," Eiry said shortly, running her hand down her face. But she didn't slide off the stool. "It's just the sheer poetry of it," she tried to explain, shaking her head in awe.

"Might as well take time for a drink," Khelgar added. Eiry snorted at the look he and Neeshka exchanged. She felt wryly pleased to see the two of them agree about something—but it would never last.

Her trouble on the other hand…

""I hardly need to find my way into trouble when I get swept up and carried away by it—kicking and screaming like Persphone at every turn. Finding a way _out _of trouble, on the other hand… _that _would be novel…" Eiry raised her head suddenly, a vaguely maniacal gleam in her eye. "Well, I'll be damned. That hedge wizard is every bit as brilliant as he claims."

"Uh, now…" Duncan paused, as if suddenly realizing he couldn't recall her name…if, in fact, he had ever known it.

"Eiry," Neeshka supplied for him, looking a bit piqued. "Well, Eirylynn Signe, if you want to be official and all that, I guess…but we just call her Eiry—she said we could!" she added hastily, lest her familiarity be misunderstood. Though Eiry wasn't exactly sure what Duncan could or would do, even if it occurred to him object.

"I think your druid friend—"

"Elanee," Neeshka chirped helpfully. Duncan shot her a look.

"—has a bit of a point. If you think Sand has a drop of sense, you're delirious—and for heaven's sake, don't let him hear you—we'll never again hear the end of it, if you do."

"Who knew the only way out of trouble was to find a way in?" Eiry mused, still chuckling. "That's a better riddle than any Tarmas ever composed."

"Tarmas?" Duncan repeated thoughtfully, taking another tact. Oh, yes, Eiry could really grow to like him. "I don't believe I know him."

"What?" Eiry asked, voice silky, words unkind, "Daeghun didn't tell you about him?"

There was a soft noise—a chuckle, or perhaps a snort—from the ranger at the end of the bar.

Duncan winced.

Eiry felt an instant twinge of guilt…and the faintest trace of satisfaction. She'd gotten a little of her own back, anyway, for all the good it would do her—though it would have been better to take it from Daeghun instead of this relatively innocent bystander…but, hey, you made do with what you had. Daeghun—and life in West Harbor—had taught her that.

"I suppose I deserved that—or Daeghun did," Duncan said with resignation. "But in spite of my shortcomings, I was hoping you might stick around for a bit and give your old Uncle Duncan a chance to get acquainted with his next-to-only kin."


	15. Calling it Due

Note: This is another one of those chapters that rate the M.

At this point each chapter post is--or will be--a plot bunny or small fragment of what might eventually take place as either one very long fic covering both the NWN2 OC and MotB, or as two slightly shorter fics covering each storyline separately.

Disclaimer: I do not own NWN2. Most dialogue in this fragment is quoted from the game. The only thing I own is the character of Eirylynn Signe, better known as Eiry. This story is written solely for fun and not for profit. I love my stories very much; please do not print or post them elsewhere without my knowledge. Thank you.

* * *

As usual, thoughts of rest didn't last long.

At first she thought…well, hoped, really, that Duncan's anxious shout was merely the remnant of some bad dream…a fear the fate of West Harbor might follow her to threaten family and friends once again. But, awake and staring at the ceiling, her head heavy with dread and sleep, she realized he was still shouting.

She rolled out of bed on a strangled groan, her fingers closing around the hilt of the sword she'd learned to keep within reach.

Surely as many times as she'd been attacked, and as much as she'd lost—she was already haunted enough to seem like a ghost to other eyes. But…unlike grief, the spell she chanted on her way to the door would actually make it harder for the weapons and spells of her enemies to do her any damage…of the physical kind, at least.

Duncan was a few paces down the hall, beset by those damn gray dwarves. His days as adventurer obviously weren't forgotten, however little he wanted to speak of them—he was holding the dwarves at bay with nothing more than his two fists.

Eiry rushed to even up the score.

She stabbed a dwarf sidling around her Uncle in an attempt to surround him, in the back hastily and without compunction, and cut a swift slice halfway through the neck of the one who tried to come to the first one's aid.

That taken care of, Duncan and Eiry didn't waste time on conversation. They rushed into the common room and waded into the middle of what appeared to be an ongoing fray.

Eiry was relieved to see all of her companions present and accounted for, and relatively unharmed—for all intents and purposes. She cut down dwarf after dwarf and bladeling after bladeling, and even gith after gith, working herself into a kind of mindless rhythm which worked itself into words upon her lips…

Until eventually she realized her own voice was the only sound she heard. The chaos had subsided into silence.

She stopped, looked up, and realized she and Bishop were standing alone in a corner near the bar.

Bishop's gaze roved her body, ranging shamelessly from head to toe and back again.

She was suddenly uncomfortably aware she was wearing her oldest, thinnest, undyed cotton shift. The fabric, damp with blood and sweat, had ridden up and was clinging—to her thighs, to her hips, and to the modest but definite curves of her breasts.

Her nipples tightened at the touch of those hot, rough amber eyes. The eyes narrowed sharply in response, and Bishop gave a low, feral laugh. Red heat flushed over her skin.

"Eiry!" Duncan's voice snapped the thread of reverie binding her to Bishop, "listen! That lass—Shandra?—has been taken."

Bishop gave another short bark of laughter. "You best hurry if you want to get her back." He gave a sharp, swift kick, jostling the man sprawled out dead across his feet. "This one has a sprig of Duskwood trapped in his boot. That means they came from deep within Luskan territory…that's where they'll be headed now."

"Luskan," Duncan said slowly. Then, with something like dawning hope, "That's your territory, Bishop."

Bishop's upper lip drew out away from his teeth in a definite snarl. "Yes, but it's not my problem. Even if I were interested in going back to Luskan—which I'm _not_—I certainly wouldn't be interested in rescuing some pathetic farm wench…Let alone bedding down with any kin of yours."

"Aww," Eiry crooned derisively, pouting her lips in mock-disappointment. "Come on…I _know_ we could have fun."

The tip of Bishop's tongue flicked across his lips. "Is your whole family deaf?" he rasped. "Like I said, it's _not_ my problem."

"You'll help them, Bishop," Duncan flatly informed him.

"And what makes you thi—" Bishop broke off, his eyes now burning a hole through Duncan instead of setting fire to her. Eiry thought that might be an improvement, but, then again, it might not. Either way, she'd certainly like to know what had just occurred. "Calling it due, are you, Duncan? Are you _sure_?"

"A woman's life is at stake," Duncan said staunchly…sounding anything but sure. "If that's what it takes…then so be it."

"Follow my lead," Bishop turned to bark at Eiry, "and don't try to be clever. If the Luskans catch us, they'll use us for target practice."

Eiry shot Bishop a look of pure, unadulterated innocence.

"All right," somehow Bishop managed to make the words—a sigh mingled with a moan—sound impatient, "pack your bags and grab your weapons."

Eiry turned and sauntered from the room as slowly and unselfconsciously as she could manage under the circumstances, tossing a look back over her shoulder just to make it clear he didn't intimidate her…even if it wasn't lost on her that he had deliberately neglected to mention she should take time to get dressed.

Bishop smirked, saluting her with the tankard he'd reclaimed from the edge of the bar.


	16. Trial by Combat

Note: At this point each chapter post is--or will be--a plot bunny or small fragment of what might eventually take place as either one very long fic covering both the NWN2 OC and MotB, or as two slightly shorter fics covering each storyline separately. While this is not cohesive story at this point, this is a long post. Since it covers one major event, I hate to break it up into smaller fragments.

Disclaimer: I do not own NWN2. Some dialogue in this chapet is quoted from the game, but I have tried to keep this to a minimum. The only thing I own is the character of Eirylynn Signe, better known as Eiry. This story is written solely for fun and not for profit. I love my stories very much; please do not print or post them elsewhere without my knowledge. Thank you.

* * *

"Forgive me," Casavir said uncomfortably. "I would not wish to disturb the Rites."

"You're not disturbing me," Eiry said, gesturing for him to come into the chapel.

Casavir took her gesturing hand hesitantly in his, his touch light as a prayer--and just as fleeting--and led her to the low bench before the altar. They sat together, knees angled close but not touching, never touching.

"I was troubled," he explained. Frankly, Eiry was a bit surprised by his use of past tense…or even that he seemed to think this was unusual. As far as she could tell, he'd been troubled since long before they'd met. Still, that didn't mean she valued his concern any less. "I thought…perhaps…by seeking you out…that I could…help somehow," he admitted. "I know something of knightly combat," he finished.

"Indeed," Eiry smiled wryly. "I would welcome your advice."

"Then," he assured her simply, "it is yours. And if you do not wish to face him, know that I will gladly serve as your champion; if you would permit it."

"Casavir." Eiry sighed. "I can't think of a greater honor…if you are willing. I wouldn't want to take advantage of your kind and overgenerous heart."

"I do not believe you would knowingly take advantage of anyone." Casavir reproved her gently. "And it will be my pleasure to lead Lorne to Justice on your behalf."

Impulsively, Eiry unwound the sash of runic doodles encircling her waist and slid it around Casavir's, her fingertips skimming his fine-woven tunic, grazing firm ripples of muscle beneath. She crossed the ends of the sash, giving them a tug that was much firmer than it needed to be, pulling so him close her lips whispered against the smooth curve of his lower jaw ever-so-barely as she formed the words--"For luck."

The knot was tied.

Eiry leaned back to admire her handiwork, Cassavir's pale eyes fixed upon her face as if she had ensnared him in some dangerous trance. Gazing up into his surprise-frozen face, Eiry winked.

She might not know much about duels, but when the story turned to the ancient tune of chivalry, she might just have a note or two to sound, after all.

Cassavir's mouth pursed slightly, as if he were about to speak. Eiry almost, almost, but never quite, touched a finger to his firm lips. The merest playful breath might have shaken her head. "Our secret," she said.

Neither of them moved, as if afraid of what would happen next.

The bits of sky in the windows were tinged with the faintest hint of a blush.

The door scraped open Sir Nevalle strode in, already pontificating.

Sir Grayson at his heels with arms full of heavy silver-blue steel. "Oleff said I ought to bring you this," he murmured, holding it out to the empty air between them.

"Your armor." The words were and were not a question.

Casavir may or may not have shrugged. "I left it in the atrium."

So it could be inspected. He was very honorable...and he was very, very sure of her answer, this Paladin. Not, as it turned out, that he was wrong.

"I'd love to help you out," Eiry interjected drily into the impassioned speech Nevalle seemed to be making about the marvelous opportunity she was being given to serve Neverwinter. She glanced at Casavir and raised her eyebrows questioningly, her message clear: still time to change your mind. Casavir stood and began fitting the shin guards to his legs, slowly but deliberately. He wasn't as subtle as...but he got his point across, and that point was clearly meant to be: I will _not_ change my mind. Not on your life, my lady. "But--in case you haven't noticed—I'm not exactly fit for service--"

"What my lady means," Casavir said calmly, "is that I fight for her today."

"What the lady means," Eiry said sharply, "is that you seem to have us confused."

Nevalle and Grayson stared.

Casavir coolly continued donning his armor.

"And as Casavir is the one performing the service," Eiry said with emphasis, though her voice was wavering just a bit, "please do be sure to reward him and not me." She turned toward the door as if unwilling--or unable--to face the Paladin. "I'll have to be escorted to the stands, I suppose?"

"Um," said Sir Grayson intelligently.

"Well," Sir Nevalle added awkwardly. "That is...yes."

Eiry's anger ebbed as she walked, her desire to run back to Casavir and apologize for the tension between them surged. Sudden swirling eddies of emotion that enveloped her, leaving her feeling ill and weak at the knees...Unless that was only fear she was walking out to her own death.

Nevalle and Grayson got her situated in the front stands and left her to her own devices, hurrying off to join Lord Nasher and Judge Oleff in the Judicial Box. Nevalle even seemed to mutter something about thinking her trustworthy "enough" as he left, though Captain Brelaina, Marshall Cormick, and Callum were seated so close to her, she would have been a fool to try any thing. Eiry devoutly hoped that if there was any one thing she was not, it was a fool. But then, you never really knew.

The sun was impossibly bright, and yet she didn't feel the faintest touch of its warmth at all, as if she were trapped in one of Sand's glass shop cases, on display to the world without being able to affect in any way at all. It seemed as those the entire city of Neverwinter was packed into the stands, closing in around her, making it difficult for her to breathe.

She could see flickers of her friends faces at the edges of her vision: now Khelgar's fierce grimace, then Grobnar's giddy wave, now the lines of tension surrounding her Uncle Duncan's eyes, then Qara's burning glance, now Sand's sharp assessment, then Elannee's elusive glance, now Neeshka's impulsive outrage, then Shandra's anxious wince loomed and wobbled into sight. Eiry was deeply touched they were all there--all but Bishop, and he was scarcely to be expected--and horribly, horribly afraid she had doomed...well, Casavir, at least, if she hadn't doomed them all.

Casavir and Lorne strode into sight from opposite sides of the arena. Light hit the surface of Casavir's armor and exploded off of it in little bursts like shooting stars sparking across the sky the way he'd flared into her life.

Lord Nasher asked if the accused or her champion were present. "I will stand on her behalf, I will stand by her side." Casavir said simply. "I am here for her."

"And so am I," another, much darker, voice growled against her ear, making Eiry's heart leap against her ribs with a resounding thud she was convinced the entire city must have heard.

"Bishop?" The name on her lips was incredulous.

"Oh," he said nonchalantly, his voice drawing across the nape of her neck as he settled into his place, "as if you didn't know that with a chance to see the Paladin disgrace himself, I had to be first in line."

"And if Duncan loses a niece into the bargain," Eiry said softly, "Well, I suppose that's even more to the good."

"You said it," he said flippantly, and took a long, deep breath. She could have sworn she felt his lips twitch a smirk into her hair...

Casavir was very, very good at what he did. Of that, there was no question. Unfortunately, there was only so long he could evade and weave, avoiding Lorne's deadly black falchion, and doing his best to get an occasional hit in where he could. And no matter how Casavir managed to hammer him with blows, Lorne just didn't seem to be affected.

Eiry wondered bleakly if things might have been different, if only she had thought to ask Cormick to fight brutish bastard instead.

A particularly nasty swipe of Lorne's sword caught Casavir along the side, nipping at his flesh through the narrow chink between the cuirass and pauldron plates of his armor.

Eiry gritted her teeth, sucking air between in a hiss.

Bishop's fingers crept about her wrist and clamped down like manacles of iron. Bruises blossomed up through her skin to meet his touch, though she found she didn't mind a bit.

Lorne raised that hulking, hungry, angry black blade yet again.

Bishop tensed beside her. Eiry knew he was preparing to bolt, ready to take her and run. She wondered if she would let him do it, wondered if she would--or could--steal what she could at Casavir's expense and not look back, never look back, leaving the Paladin to her fate. She wondered if she could really stop Bishop from having his way with her even if she tried...and what he would do to her if she did.

And then, in the same instant, Casavir spun to the side, swinging his arm upward with all the strength it retained as he moved, so that solid, unyielding hammer of his slammed firmly into the center of Lorne's face, sending up a fine ruby shower of blood.

For the merest fraction of a heartbeat, all Eiry felt was disappointment. Even as, for one awful instant, Lorne tottered on his feet, the falchion dipping and swaying in a way that left Casavir hard-pressed to avoid the bite of its venomous teeth...and then Lorne toppled like a large but rotten hollow tree, leaving Casavir standing over him, swaying with exhaustion, like an unmoored vine.

And with Lord Nasher's voice declaring Casavir's victory complete, there came relief.

Both the threat of execution and Bishop's grip on her wrist had suddenly been released.


	17. One of the Nine

Note: This is not a cohesive story at this point. Instead each post is--or will be--a plot bunny or small fragment of what might eventually take place as either one very long fic covering both the NWN2 OC and MotB, or as two slightly shorter fics covering each storyline separately.

Disclaimer: I do not own NWN2. Most of the dialogue in this snippet is taken directly from the game, although I have tried to limit this effect. The only thing I own is the character of Eirylynn Signe, better known as Eiry. This story is written solely for fun and not for profit. I love my stories very much; please do not print or post them elsewhere without my knowledge. Thank you.

* * *

Nasher hadn't been completely honest with her. Perhaps he hadn't trusted her fully. Perhaps he had hoped to protect her, her companions, Tavorick. Whatever his reasons, it seemed the effects of his decision might well prove disastrous.

"We'd better get to the Mask and warn Melia," Eiry said glancing furtively in Casavir's direction. He looked even more tired and sick than she felt, as if only sheer stubborn pride kept him from swaying in place…and as shocked as if someone had stricken him with a particularly potent lightning bolt. But his eyes met hers as coolly and steadily as ever they had.

Eiry had run faster than she'd ever known she could the night West Harbor fell under attack and her entire life had fallen apart at the seams…but now, after months of intensive fighting and traveling, she might have run even faster. The buildings all about her were a blue-gray blur of slate, the cobbles of the streets rose and dropped like the flow of a particularly choppy under her feet. For every fleeting step she took, Casavir nearly matched, barreling along with a speed and grace that belied his size and the seemingly awkward weight of his armor. She had never thought to see him frightened. His fear spurred hers, drove her onward.

Eiry barely paused, barely noticed Ophala flickering past in the corner of her eye, barely heard or registered Ophala's attempted warning. "A man with glowing tattoos on his face…demons…still upstairs now…"

He was upstairs contemplating the once-vibrant shell of Melia on the floor. "Ah," he said almost ruminatively, looking up as the rest of the group pounded their way into the room. "Reinforcements. I'm afraid you've come too late to save this one. And if it's the shard you're after, I'm afraid I have that as well. It seems to me all you have left is your lives…but that is easily corrected."

With a burst of power like a thunderclap, a pair of gigantic Nessian war hounds loomed into being, already leaping for their prey.

Eiry swore and dived violently to the left, wrenching her shoulder as she rolled hurriedly back to her feet. Casavir deflected the other hound with an absentminded twitch of his armored fist, his gaze was focused on the remains of the woman they'd come to save. Grief lanced through Eirylynn sharply, the memory of Amie huddled in the grass spearing her heart.

The hound's teeth grazed her throat. She gasped, eyelids flickering as she prepared to pay for her distraction with her life.

Bishop snarled, knocking Eiry out of the way with his shoulder, and planted one of his twin blades deep into the hound's breastbone, sliding the other one swiftly between its ribs.

Looking even paler than he had before, Casavir still managed to rally, slamming his hammer down into the other hound's back. There was a muffled but definite crack as the dog's spine shattered.

Eiry wasn't exactly sympathetic, but she couldn't quite help but wince.

Casavir quickly struck the dog again, swinging solidly into its skull, putting it out of its misery.

Eiry sucked in a deep breath and looked at Bishop, about to thank him…but something in his expression made her bite her tongue.

She wanted nothing more than to sink down on the floor in the midst of the rubble, and possibly never move again, but slowly, grudgingly, she began to trudge toward the stairs.

The guards at the gate to Neverwinter Castle looked between her and Casavir, took in Bishop's smoldering glare over shoulder, and the set of Sand's mouth in a grim line…and decided not to argue.

She didn't know how, and she didn't care, but they must have managed to send word ahead somehow, because—despite the lateness of the hour—Nasher was waiting in the throne room, Nevalle at his right hand as usual, when they arrived.

"I heard there was a battle at the Moonstone Mask," Nasher said with what might have been the faintest suggestion of breathless suspense.

Eiry realized with a distant twinge of shock that whether Ophala had sent a messenger or whether the guards had simply heard or seen the Warlock's approach to the Mask, Nasher already knew what they had come to tell him. In fact, he may have known before they had…and he had been here before they arrived…waiting.

Not that he had any apologies to offer for misleading them. No, he had only more orders and more commands to offer as they stood before him, Casavir so pale he was absolutely ashen, with circles as dark as the shadows of the Mere gathering beneath his eyes. Elanee siddled unobtrusively to his side, as if to heal him. He raised a hand to wave her away. Eiry parted her lips to say something, though she had no idea what. And all of those orders, and all of those commands issued with that same damned aura of granting a favor.

It made her want to smack him. Only Nevalle and the guards…and possibly Casavir if he wasn't about to pass out…would probably take offense.

"Garius must be stopped. I want you to leave as soon as you are able to travel, and do everything in your power to stop this ritual Garius tends to perform."

_And what makes you think I have anything in my power at all? _Eiry wondered wearily. _It certainly doesn't seem so to me. _"Lord Nasher," she said as politely as she could. "Before I go, about Luskan involvement with Ember—"

"Luskan is not your concern at this time," Nasher said severely. He sounded like Retta rebuking one of the Starling hunting dogs. "You have your orders, and I want you to focus on them. That is all." Eiry was not amused, but she was more than ready to retreat.

They were all exhausted, physically and emotionally drained. Even if Casavir hadn't looked like one of the walking undead, Eiry still would have interpreted "as soon as you are able to travel" to mean "after you've slept for a couple of days straight." In fact, if only she could have figured out how, she would gladly have interpreted it to mean, "please don't bother going at all, and feel free to forget about the whole thing," but somehow she suspected that Nasher would eventually drag her from the Flagon kicking and screaming…and that was only if Garius didn't complete his damn ritual and come hunting for her first.

Nonetheless, come what may, she and her companions were not going anywhere without a good night's sleep.

The instant they crossed the threshold of the Flagon, everyone went to do exactly that.

Well, everyone except Eiry, Casavir, and Bishop.

The touch of Eiry's hand on his arm held Casavir back.

Bishop stepped up to the bar and snapped a demand for firewhiskey in Sal's direction, but Eiry could feel his eyes tracking them from across the room. She ignored them—ignored him. Well, mostly, anyway.

"Casavir—" She stopped, sighed, took a deep breath, squared her shoulders and finished her sentence. "What in the Nine Hells is wrong?"

"My lady?" Casavir looked at her, lines of confusion…and…and…something else…bracketing the corners of his eyes, etching deeper with each heartbeat.

"Don't play innocent with me," Eiry said sharply. "You know what I mean."

Casavir sighed too, his shoulders slumping a bit. "My lady—" he said again, in an entirely different tone.

Eiry folded her arms over her chest and stared him down.

"Melia…" Casavir said slowly, looking as if he'd rather face down a few more war hounds than have their current discussion. "Was…not unknown to me."

"You looked at her as if you'd seen a ghost," Eiry said bluntly, but not without concern.

"Yes, she…she haunted me…I suppose," Casavir admitted, emotion surging over, around, behind, the restrained tone in his voice. There was a long and heavy pause. Eiry envied Bishop that damned firewhiskey more than he knew…and she didn't even particularly care for firewhiskey.

"I am no teller of tales," Casavir added a bit stiffly. "I would not know where to begin."

Eiry collapsed onto the nearest stool. "Did you know…"

Casavir took his place on the stool across from her. "She was one of the Nine? No, my lady…I did not. If I had…"

"I thought maybe…"

"I knew and kept silent…because of my loyalty to Neverwinter…and doubted myself? Feared I had done some great disservice to my city and my…friend…wondered if by telling you their secret I might have prevented…"

"Well…"

Casavir gave a short, bitter laugh. For a moment, he sounded like Bishop. "It does sound like me, my lady, does it not? More than you may even know…"

"Casavir…" she said again, and the word meant so much more. It meant she wanted to know, perhaps that she needed to know, that she wanted to help…that she hated to ask…

He raked his fingers through his black hair. It shimmered blue in the shadows and the firelight, faint strands of what might be silver glinting like a halo about his head.

"Melia and I…grew up in the same village…" Casavir said heavily. "She was…she was…spirited. Mischievous. Playful. I was…not."

Eiry smiled wryly.

"She…I loved her for that…I thought…she brought so much…charm…to life…when I saw myself reflected in her eyes…I felt…I could do anything…"

Eiry's eyes traced the tightened lines of his face, watched the working of his throat as she waited.

Eventually he continued, "…even when I left the village…became a squire…it didn't matter. Her parents had brought her to the city…I didn't really think about it then, though, of course, now I know…they had brought her to seek a suitable partner…for…for marriage. If I had thought about it, I would have been worried, not that I would loose her, but that…well…Melia…she was not suited…but her parents…she was an only child…they were in no hurry…I suppose I thought…hoped…I would make my fortune quickly…and…Melia took up music lessons and dancing…skills at which she excelled…of course, I thought, I thought she excelled at everything…We…saw each other reasonably often…I even introduced her to my dearest friend…a fellow squire…"

"…but…eventually, Melia came to me…she…she warned me…I should…well…watch myself…she claimed…she claimed she worked for Ophala on behalf of Lord Nasher…and Neverwinter…she said…my friend…Kail….he…was…suspected of working on behalf of Luskan…"

"Oh, gods," Eiry whispered, feeling sick.

Casavir smiled almost imperceptibly, gratitude and relief at her sharing some of the weight of his burden. "I…I…at the time…I thought she was joking…teasing as was her wont…I thought…well…when I began to realize…to fear…she might be serious…I hesitated…wondered if…"

"She was right?" Eiry said heavily.

"If she was serious, if she was working on behalf of Nasher, on behalf of the city, then…what she said…"

"Was said by Nasher and the City?" Eiry finished sadly.

Casavir clenched his armored fists, setting them down upon the table with a heavy thud that made her jump. Behind her, at the bar, Bishop shifted his weight in response.

"I never thought…the City…could be…"

"Wrong," Eiry whispered, almost hoping he hadn't heard. "Injust?"

"and certain items…important weapons…medical supplies…things…entrusted…to Kail…they had…gone missing…"

"They arrested him," Eiry said with conviction. "For treason."

"They arrested him," Casavir repeated, sounding lost. His blue eyes burned with unshed tears. "They executed him. And…two days…two days…later…his sister arrived. Kail had committed treason…he had been stealing the supplies…but…"

"He wasn't sending them to Luskan." Eiry sighed.

"No. He was sending them to Old Owl Well. He was sending them to his sister. He was sending them to—"

"Katriona?"

"Yes."

"And Melia?"

"I confronted her. Demanded to know how the City could have acted…how _she_ could have acted without troubling to confirm the truth…she was sorry…she _said_ she was sorry…but…she had done her job. Regardless of where the supplies had gone, they had gone. Regardless of why --- had stolen them, he had stolen them…He had betrayed his oath…and…"

"His betrayal had been punished."

"I…left the City the next morning and…"

"Made your way to Old Owl Well?"

"Yes. Kail had been trying to protect his family and friends…they were desperate…the orcs had destroyed nearly everything they had…"

"You did it, Casavir," Eiry said softly, reaching out to touch the tips of fingers to his cheek. "You saved Old Owl Well for them. You saved Old Owl for Kail."

Casavir reached up and caught her had in his, trapping it between the solid length of his jaw and the cold steel of his fingers.

"We did it, my lady," he corrected softly. "We put the ghost of Kail to rest with peace for his people, and for that…as always…I thank you." He turned his face, planting a light, firm kiss in the center of her palm.

Eiry's breath caught in her throat. "I—I only wish…"

Casavir watched her, making no move to release her hand.

"I only wish I could have helped you find the opportunity to…find peace with Melia as well."

"Melia…" Casavir said.

There was another long pause. He looked down at the table, playing with Eiry's fingers where they lay inside his palm.

"I…I thank you, my lady…" he said at last. "But…the Melia I knew…the Melia I loved…or thought I loved…was not…the woman who died this night…I am…sorry…for her death…but she was…lost…to me long ago…and…I thought…I had…begun to…accept…"

"When my home…West Harbor…the night it was attacked…the night I left to come to Neverwinter…" Eiry stopped and licked her lips. "My friend, Amie…she…tonight…

when we found Melia at the Mask…I saw the look on your face…and…it was as if…"

"Yes. Seeing her…it was like I had lost her…all over again…"

"Yes."

"I am sorry, my lady," Casavir said simply, his fingers tightening slightly around her hand. "…for your loss, and for your pain."

"As I am sorry for yours," she said. "I know you don't usually drink, but…"

"You think this is one time I should make an exception?"

"I find it sometimes helps drown the dreams," Eiry admitted. "Enough to help you sleep a little, at least."

Casavir inclined his head slightly. "Your wish is my command…especially as you may just have a point."

Eiry laughed, and pushed away from the stool. "What's your poison?"

Casavir shrugged and his lips quirked. "It's _all_ poison, if you ask me."

"Well, well, enjoying our little tryst, are we?" Bishop drawled as she stepped up to the bar. "You do know he almost got you killed tonight, don't you, _my lady_? If that's what you want, all you had to do was ask."

"Ah, that's the difference between you then," Eiry quipped as she rummaged for tankards. "I'd have to ask _you_…Casavir volunteered. Besides, I'd hate for the local brothel to lose too much business on my account."

Bishop's eyes narrowed dangerously, then he threw back his head and laughed.

Eiry filled the tankards with cider, and added a healthy dose of firewhiskey to one of them. Bishop cocked his head to the side. "He may have volunteered, but if that's what it takes to loosen the bolts of his chastity belt, I'd be _much_ better up to the task."

Eiry flushed and nearly spilled firewhiskey across the bar in the act of refilling Bishop's glass.

"Oh, I wouldn't be so sure of that," she said as flippantly as she could. She picked up the two tankards. "I think Casavir is going to give me _exactly_ what I want," she purred in Bishop's ear as, drawing the tips of her fingers along his shoulders she passed him, lowering her eyelashes and letting them flutter suggestively.

She took a couple of steps and stopped, turning just enough to look coyly over her shoulder. "Sweet dreams, Bishop," she said, shaping each word like a kiss.

Bishop drew in a breath that sounded like a growl…

Casavir's face was grave as she reclaimed her seat and pushed the doctored cider toward him across the table. "My lady, was he…bothering…you?"

"What?" Eiry looked at him in bemusement. "Oh, Bishop? No more so than usual." Which was certainly more true than she would like, and probably far more true than was good for her. Casavir's face reflected at least some of this thought back to her.

Eiry sighed. "Drink up. It's past time for bed, and you look about as weary as I feel. I know there's no rest for the weary, but we've got to try…apparently we have a lot to do."

Casavir lifted the mug and raised it in her direction as he had so often seen Khelgar do. She smiled at him and returned the gesture, drinking half the cider in a gulp. Fighting and running and worrying about the imminent mental and emotional meltdowns of one's friends was thirsty work.

Quickly finishing the rest of her drink, she left Casavir to his drink and to his thoughts, and carried her tankard back to the bar, vaguely surprised to find that Bishop seemed to have disappeared, though he had—even more surprisingly—been considerate enough to put his glass away first.

She stumbled into her room, slid the bolt in the door, stripped off enough of her armor to make sleeping bit more comfortable, and fell onto the bed.


	18. Bishop and the Apple

Note: In case you were wondering, this would be the reason for the M-rating.

Disclaimer: I do not own NWN2. The only thing I own is the character of Eirylynn Signe, better known as Eiry. This story is written solely for fun and not for profit. I love my stories very much; please do not print or post them elsewhere without my knowledge. Thank you.

* * *

Bishop lowered himself onto the fallen log beside her, his leg pressing against hers, a length of hot silken steel she could feel against her skin in spite of the thick leather they both wore. His left hand—rough with bowstring calluses—slid across the nape of her neck, clamping down just enough to keep her from turning her head, his thumb tracing idle circles at the juncture where her shoulder met her neck, making her shiver.

He raised his right hand as if to strike her, but his knuckles barely brushed her cheek like a hesitant kiss. Another touch crowned them, solid, smooth and firm. He lazily moved his hand—and the object it held—along her face to her lips, using it to outline her mouth. The scent of apple drifted upward to her nose, mingling with the smell of leaves, of leather, of loam…the smell that belonged to him alone. Her lips parted.

Bishop laughed, a rumbling growl that made her whole body resonate, and pulled the apple away slightly, then brought it back again, repeating the process several times until her maddened senses left her dizzy, making her sway in his direction in spite of the fact she couldn't move…and then the apple stilled.

Eiry bit into it, deliberately letting her teeth graze Bishop's knuckle in the process, sucking slightly as she closed her mouth and swallowed the morsel.

One of the two of them…or perhaps both…let out a strangled groan.


	19. Buried in Dreams

Note: This is not a cohesive story at this point. Instead each post is--or will be--a plot bunny or small fragment of what might eventually take place as either one very long fic covering both the NWN2 OC and MotB, or as two slightly shorter fics covering each storyline separately.

Disclaimer: I do not own NWN2. Most of the dialogue in this snippet is taken directly from the game, although I have tried to limit this effect. The only thing I own is the character of Eirylynn Signe, better known as Eiry. This story is written solely for fun and not for profit. I love my stories very much; please do not print or post them elsewhere without my knowledge. Thank you.

* * *

_She was flying free…or falling, spiraling through open and endless space…A tug on her chest reverberated through her like a sharp pluck at the strings of her lute, sounding a single clear note of pain…that seemed to resonate through her entire body, building and pulsing outward… her heart pounded a drumbeat of grief like a wound that surged through her very soul until it burst…she broke apart into shards...spiraling outward like the dying notes of dirge…… pieces of silver-white light raining down like stars…crashing down like boulders, burying her alive, crushing the breath from her lungs with a weight of guilt of grief… _

Suddenly—hitting the ground hard as if she had been thrown from a high place—she was sharply, vividly, aware of cold, hard rock pressed against the hot, throbbing wound in her chest.

Confused, disoriented, half-desperate to escape the pain, she struggled to raise her head. She felt like an animal caught in a trap. The mad desire for freedom at any cost burned through her…she had always had a certain sneaking empathy with Bishop's rage…but now…

Bishop.

Anger and grief clogged her throat, followed quickly by regret, confusion…relief.

Bishop.

She remembered.

She remembered the pain in his amber eyes as he'd looked at her for the last time…the way she'd looked at West Harbor the night Daeghun told her she must leave…the way that pain in his eyes had eaten through him and into her…eaten a hole in her heart…a hole that was still burning…

Even as she had known—or guessed—the dark anger that raged within him, threatening to consume them all as surely as the shadows consumed the Mere—known and never forgotten he was not to be trusted—trust him she had, and for that very reason… she knew he looked at her and saw the truth. The deepest truth, the darkest truth…the truth no one acknowledged, no one discussed…maybe the truth no one saw.

Certainly the truth no one would have admitted or accepted or admired…no one but Bishop…he saw her fear, her frustration, her bitterness, her anger…just as she saw his…and in that, they understood one another very well. In that, they were bound irrevocably together…in that, there was a dark shadow of love not without a beauty all its own…

She had always known he was not to be trusted, and—in that regard—he had proven himself all too trustworthy in the end. She wished he was around to share her black pleasure in the irony of that fact. But…she was glad he was not…she knew what had happened to him…she knew where he was…and he was not here…

He was safe.

But the others…the others…

She remembered a moment like an in-drawn breath when life itself seemed to pause…shadows breaking apart into bursts of white-hot light…pain echoed again through her chest…was the pain making the ground beneath her shake…or was it memory?

If she listened very hard, she thought she could hear the voices of her friends and companions…

"Don't move. I'm here."

The voice…the voice seemed familiar, like one she should know…and yet…

Opening her eyes, she saw a distant figure moving through a haze of purple light…the figure…one she couldn't immediately identify…raised a hand and made some sort of gesture…the light began to ebb away…

But as the figure moved closer, it became no more familiar.

"Wh—" she paused, sucked in a breath that mingled with the pain in her chest, coughing slightly as some grit hit the back of her throat, and tried again. "Who are you?" For that matter, though she lacked the energy to say so much where was she? Where were the others? What in the Nine Hells had happened?

"My name is Safiya," the familiar-but-unidentifiable voice explained. "The binding wards are wearing off. Your arms and legs will be stiff, but you'll be able to walk."

The figure crouched down beside her, a slowly sharpening blur of red and honeyed gold, and slid a hand across her back, helping her lever herself up off the ground.

She realized she was somewhat surprised to find the feeling of being crushed beneath a great weight, was not the result of actually being buried under several tons of rock. She narrowed her eyes and craned her neck, trying to see into the shadows over the red-clad woman's shoulder…but she saw only a great and endless void.

Empty space.

"I know you have questions," the red-clad woman—Safiya—said.

She did have questions. Countless hordes of them, pounding a ceaseless storm through her brain…there were so many, making so much noise…she'd scarcely been able to separate them, to sort them, to comprehend their existence, let alone articulate it…

"But we must leave here before the spirits wake," the woman added firmly.

Spirits? Wake? Did that mean they had failed after all? The King of Shadows hadn't been destroyed?

But…how would this stranger know such a thing…this woman…in red robes and flowing red trousers…with a smoothly shining bare head and luminous dark eyes emphasized by scrolling lines of dark ink…

"Those tattoos…and your red robes…" she paused, frowning, gathering her thoughts, trying to think through the haze of pain that pulsed through her… "they mark you for a Red Wizard of Thay."

"I am that and more," the woman—Safiya—replied. "But disregard whatever rumors you have heard regarding Red Wizards. I'm no threat. Not to you at least. I am here to assist you, and I will do just that."

"You said something about spirits," she said. Her tongue felt stiff and heavy.

"We're in a barrow, deep within Rashemen," Safiyia said, glancing over her shoulder uneasily. The locals say that powerful spirits dwell here—hostile to those trying to enter…and trying to leave."

"Rashemen?" Shock seemed to amplify the drumbeat of her pain. "That's hundreds of miles from the Sword Coast!"

"I don't know how you got here," Safiya said grimly. "But I'll take you to someone who might and make certain she gives us _both_ some answers. _After_ we get out. For the moment, haste is all that matters."

"All right," she sighed. "Let's go."

As they began to move away from the space where she'd been lying, she noticed a series of tall, slightly arched pillars towering about them…each intricately inscribed with a series of glowing runes.

Once, a lifetime ago, Tarmas had taught her many of the most basic magical runes—well, taught Amie in her presence, anyway…and Sand…more recently Sand had taught her others…but she did not recognize these…though she felt she should have, somehow…they were familiar in the same strange way Safiya herself seemed to be…and the familiarity paired with the inability to remember maddened her…increased her pain…made her dizzy.

She reached out and touched her hand to one of the pillars, as if to steady herself…

_Voices surged up within her, swelling and swirling through her…images spun through her head like leaves tossed about in the frenzy of river rapids… the hollow ache at the center of her heart writhing and twisting in their wake…_

Safiya was at her shoulder, supporting her…already hustling her past the rest of the columns and up the narrow tunnel that stretched before them. "What was that?" She demanded a bit breathlessly. "What did you see?"

She closed her eyes, the images flickering against the inside of her eyelids. "A laughing boy…a woman with golden skin and eyes of love...a wall of screaming souls…" as she said the last, she shivered suddenly, violently, cold pumping through her blood like a blizzard.

"They're thoughts," Safiya said, "or memories. Maybe from within you, or maybe from without. The Rashemi claim these runes can trap dreams…or set them loose. This place is…not right. Everything echoes so strongly. I will be glad to leave this barrow behind."

A place that could trap dreams…was she, then, only dreaming? Would she soon awake in her own bed at Crossroad Keep? Was the battle with the King of Shadows joined or yet to come? Or was she, in fact, in bed at West Harbor, suffering some surprisingly unsettling affects from a surfeit of Harvest Mead?

It seemed so unlikely…and while she might have been pleased to awake at the Keep…she did not think she would be equally pleased to find that past few months with all their pain and heartache were a dream…that her friends and companions and the Keep into which she'd poured so much of herself…did not exist…and never really had…

She swayed in mid-step but she didn't falter in her stride.


	20. Sing, Sing Sorrow

Note: This is intended to be a song or part of a song written by Eiry during the MotB campaign. The verses are based on the plot and characters from the game, but the words are mine. The title comes from the truly fantastic translation of "Oresteia" by Alan Shapiro, which everyone should read. Immediately.

Disclaimer: I do not own NWN2. The only thing I own is the character of Eirylynn Signe, better known as Eiry. This story is written solely for fun and not for profit. I love my stories very much; please do not print or post them elsewhere without my knowledge. Thank you.

* * *

_Weary winds of winter _

_are creeping slowly in_

_Faerun is growing colder_

_The sun seems suddenly dim_

_Winter is but a season_

_But this season__—_

_it is a hard one_

_and I could use friend_

_I look but you are missing_

_I know not where_

_you have gone__—__In my heart your place _

_is empty;_

_I wander_

_Here without you_

_In this land, I am_

_Alone. _

_You are not forgotten,_

_Of you and your deeds_

_I sing, I sing, _

_but do you hear me?_

_Sorrow is my chorus, _

_Sorrow is my song,_

_My voice is growing weary_

_The night is growing long__…_


	21. Woven in the Web of Dreams

Note: This is not a cohesive story at this point. Instead each post is--or will be--a plot bunny or small fragment of what might eventually take place as either one very long fic covering both the NWN2 OC and MotB, or as two slightly shorter fics covering each storyline separately. Also, in case you are curious about the title, it's a very vague reference to The Aeneid, where the Sybil writes words or letters of her prophecies on leaves that are scattered by the winds.

Disclaimer: I do not own NWN2. The only thing I own is the character of Eirylynn Signe, better known as Eiry. This story is written solely for fun and not for profit. I love my stories very much; please do not print or post them elsewhere without my knowledge. Thank you.

* * *

_Eiry was lost in depths of the Claimed Lands…tangled in snarls of vines and weeds and a darkness that threatened to devour her._

_Everywhere she looked, she saw her own face reflected back again…but somehow she knew the person beneath her face, and that person was different in each place she stood. _

_Here, on her right—that was Casavir, doubtful and dedicated, radiating the determined discipline of the true Paladin, the rock on which she relied. _

_There, on her left—that was Bishop, burning with rage and despair, smoldering with unwanted hope and unwilling desire, making her sweat. _

_Khelgar, brimming over with rough and ready _joie de vie_that made her grin…_

_Neeshka, impish and irrepressible with all the uncomplicated pleasure to be found in mischief, most of which was innocent enough…_

_Elanee, quiet and calm, still waters that ran troubled and deep, the nature and wisdom of things that could not be explained but were well worth appreciating… _

_Qara, ambition and frustration, dark tarnish overlaying golden potential, the bitter gall of being forced to bend in service to someone else's choice, however necessary…_

_Grobnar, simple and uncomplicated, the satisfaction of things learned and discovered, embodied in a single spoken word …_

_Shandra, stubborn and slow to change, but slowly growing and maturing, cut down before her time…_

_Sand, cutting precision and biting wit, amoral and intelligent, inquiring lens through which she investigated the world…_

_Ammon Jerro, unyielding and unashamed, ready, willing, and able to do what must done, ready to pay the price, no matter what it was …_

_and there was Zhaejeve, directly across from her, alien and inscrutable, completely unknown, revealing Eirylynn to herself with unerring—if annoying—knowing. _

_All the parts of her swept into line, fell into place, formed a single, unbroken blade, because she wanted them to…because she _willed _them to. And she knew, as if remembering, that she was the heart that united, and the hand that led. _

_Together, they tore through the brush that bound them. The darkness around them flickered…she thought she could see the path that led to the Keep…_

_And, then, before her eyes…Bishop was fading, dissolving into nothing…Casavir reached out as if to hold him back, but his hands passed through empty space…and, suddenly a woman in red robes was standing where Bishop had been. She raised her hands as Zeeaire had done once, and Eiry felt herself frozen, suspended, somehow encased in pain erupting from her chest. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Neeshka and Qara spiraling away from the line, Khelgar and Sand leaping forward as if to stop them, but it was no use… the shard in her chest was gone, clutched in the red woman's triumphant hand… the blade was shattering…in the Mere, winter was coming… lives falling away from it in splinters, like leaves from the trees …the red woman's lips were moving… "For love," she said… Eiry felt herself retreating, withdrawing from her body no matter how she fought…_

_And then she was standing in the clearing, alone…no, not alone. Gann stood at her side. He reached out and brushed his fingers along her cheek, wiping away tears she hadn't known she'd shed. Maybe she leaned in toward him, maybe he took matters into his own hands…she was never to know who made the first move…and she never cared to learn. His arms coming around her, drawing the tattered edges of her soul back together, holding her close…were enough…and more than enough. It was like coming home…and she realized with a start, but without surprise, that they were standing on the village green in West Harbor. _


End file.
